Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87880 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“Father was hard on Casso. He was the heir after all and the Don had to make sure the Famiglia would pass on to someone strong. He was always up Casso’s ass making him do crazy shit and forcing him to get out and do crimes. I honestly don’t know how he survived, let alone ended up as relatively well-adjusted as he is now. For a psychotic gangster anyway.” Gavino grins and drinks.
“Casso doesn’t talk about your father much,” I say, looking at the bar. “There’s a lot from back then we don’t talk about.”
“Can’t say I blame him. Casso got the brunt of Father’s intensity and I think he’s only just figuring out how to deal with it.” He rubs his face and sips his whiskey. “Fynn had it the easiest, I think. He kept his mouth shut and did what was asked of him without complaining. Then there’s me, unable to be quiet for ten seconds. But mostly I had it easy. Father didn’t expect much from me and I didn’t offer much, and now here I am.”
“How involved were you and Fynn in the war? I mean you were kids, right?”
“Kids,” he confirms. “And heavily uninvolved, like I said, we barely knew it was happening. I mean that literally. Your brother was the opposite though, from what I recall.” He says it casually like he’s just being polite, but the mention of my brother sets my whole body on fire, like a jolt of lightning down my spine.
I try not to show it but I’m trembling. I risk a sip of whiskey to calm my nerves. The ice rattles against the glass as I place it back down. So much for getting myself together.
“I still don’t know what happened to my brother.” I stare at the ice, unable to meet Gavino’s eye. “Even after all this time. Papa doesn’t talk about it, he says Manuel died in an accident, but that doesn’t explain anything. Died in an accident because someone accidentally shot him? Died drunk driving? What accident? The casket was closed and Papa claims it was better that way. I don’t know why. I just don’t know. It’s hard, you know, wondering what my brother’s last days were like. I accepted a long time ago I might never find out.”
Gavino lets out a long sigh. He finishes his whiskey and pours another. I take another drink and he tops me off with a grim nod.
“If that were my brother, I’d want to know. If it were Fynn, I’d want someone to tell me. I can’t imagine how hard it would’ve been going from having a brother one second to him being gone the next, just gone, no explanation.”
“That’s all I want. Just to know what happened might help, although I worry nothing will make the hurt go away complete.”
He slides the bottle away. “I’m not supposed to say anything. It’s not some big secret, but Casso said he’s got a deal with you. Fuck deals though. Fuck the Famiglia right now. The Famiglia got us into this fucking mess.” He closes his eyes as he takes another drink. “Your brother died in a car bomb.”
I sit back and stare. He’s got to be joking. A car bomb? That’s the sort of thing that happens somewhere else, over in Ireland during the Troubles, or in the Middle East during the Iraq invasion. A car bomb here, in Phoenix? It’s too hard to fathom.
“I don’t understand,” I manage to say because I can barely breathe. I take another drink to try to loosen up but that doesn’t help at all. Only makes me cough and Gavino gives me a pitying look.
“I don’t have the details, but Nico told me about it. Story goes like this. Your brother was at some meeting with our father, an important meeting brokered by this Russian guy. I don’t know his name or how he’s involved, but he was the one acting as the middleman. Anyway, meeting goes well, all that stuff, but when they get back to my father’s car and shake hands, a bomb goes off. Blows my father’s truck to pieces, kills the Russian, kills your brother, and our father only survived by blind luck. I wonder how much better off everyone would be if that bomb killed our father instead of your brother and that Russian guy. Guess we’ll never know.” He swirls his drink, holds it up, and smiles bitterly. “To fallen family.”
I don’t toast. I sit there numb and in shock as he drinks, throwing back the contents of his glass, and gets to his feet unsteadily. He looks rundown, worn to the bits. Like he’s going through his own slow-motion explosion. “Nico says after that, the war went into overdrive. Father went sort of nuts, blamed your family for nearly killing him, and drove them from the city. The rest is history, as they say.” He wipes a hand across his face. “I’m heading to sleep. Thanks for having a drink with me. Sorry about your brother, but I hope knowing helps.” He walks past me, out the door, and disappears.