Page 55 of Veil of the Past
There is a moment of silence at the table as everyone digests his words. My father nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. “A vital role,” he acknowledges. “Not everyone can handle that kind of responsibility. And New York… it’s not a place that forgives mistakes.”
Romiro nods. “It’s not a job for everyone,” he agrees, his tone measured. “But I’ve found my place in it. I know what needs to be done, and I do it.”
Beside him, Tristan’s hands move swiftly in the air, signing. He’s asking Romiro if anything interesting has happened in the past couple of weeks, any progress with the war we have with the Camorra.
I translate for Romiro, keeping my voice calm and steady. “Tristan wants to know if you have any updates for the…issues that we’re facing with the Outfit,” I say. “If there are things you’ve done that still linger with you.”
Romiro doesn’t flinch. He meets Tristan’s gaze directly, his expression steady. “Yes,” he replies. “There’s talk of….” Romiro lowers his voice before continuing, “an attack. The Moretti’s are out for blood.”
Tristan watches him carefully, then nods, his hands moving again, this time more slowly, deliberately. He signs for me to tell Romiro that we should strike back for the attack we had a couple months ago.
I translate for Romiro. “Tristan’s suggesting we—the Camorra hit back for the attack the Outfit did on the port in Texas.”
Romiro shakes his head. “No. It’s too risky, though we did think of it, but logistics-wise the hit won’t be worth the time or resources.”
Nonna claps her hands, drawing our attention. “Enough with the morbid talk, it’s time to order.”
And with that, any talk about business ceases, and we place our orders. Mamma opts for her usual chicken piccata, and my father orders the seafood risotto. Nonna, ever the traditionalist, chooses gnocchi. Tristan asks for his favorite, margherita pizza, and I decide on the spaghetti alle vongole. When it’s Romiro’s turn, my father interjects with a grin. “You should try the rigatoni, Romiro. You can never go wrong with pasta at Vito’s.”
Romiro smiles. “Rigatoni sounds good. I trust your judgment, Sir.”
The waitress takes our menus, and for a moment, there’s a brief lull in the conversation. The sun is warm on my face, and the air carries a gentle breeze. I feel a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this lunch will go smoothly after all.
But then I hear it—the sharp screech of tires slicing through the calm, and my father’s face hardens instantly. Romiro tenses, his body coiling like a spring, his eyes scanning the street. My father shouts, “Get down!”, He pushes Mamma down, “Now!” My brother’s hand moves instinctively toward the gun beneath his jacket.
Before I can even know what’s happening, the world erupts around us.
Gunfire. The sharp, deafening crack of bullets fills the air, and in an instant, Romiro pulls me to his side before pushing me down, his arms wrapping around me tightly, shielding me with his body. The rough cobblestones scrape against my knees as I hit the ground, but all I can focus on is the roar of gunfire and the chaos that surrounds us.
“Stay down!” Romiro’s voice is fierce and urgent in my ear. His breath is warm against my skin, his body solid and protective above mine. My father is shouting commands, his voice cutting through the noise, and I see Tristan moving quickly, his gun drawn, firing back with a precision born from years of practice. Bullets are flying everywhere. A dozen casings dropping in seconds.
The air is heavy with the smell of gunpowder, the acrid scent burning in my nostrils. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might burst out of my chest, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Romiro’s expression is focused—his jaw clenched tight as he keeps me close, and his eyes scanning for threats.
And then I hear it—a scream, high and desperate. Mamma’s scream.
I twist, trying to see through the chaos, and my heart stops. Nonna is slumped in her chair, her head tilting at an unnatural angle, a dark red stain spreading across her neck. The blood is thick as it quickly pours from a wound that looks too deep, too fatal.
“Nonna!” I scream, my voice breaking, but Romiro’s grip tightens, holding me in place.
“Don’t move!” he orders, his tone sharp, his gaze still fixed on the street, watching for more danger.
Dad looks back and says, “We need to call for help.”
I turn to look at Romiro, my words tumbling out in a rush. “Please, let me go to her…”
Romiro nods slightly, loosening his grip just enough to let me scramble toward Nonna. I reach her side, my hands pressing against the wound on her neck, but the blood is warm and slick, slipping through my fingers.
“Nonna,” I whisper, my voice choked with panic. “Please, stay with me…”
But her eyes are vacant, her body still, and I know. I know she’s gone. Mamma is sobbing, a broken sound that tears through the air, and my father’s face is pale, his hands trembling as he grips his gun, his eyes scanning for more threats.
Dad’s voice shouts over the top of the chaos “We need to get out now; it’s too dangerous.”
Romiro nods, already moving to stand. “We need to leave,” he says, his voice steady but urgent. “Now, Alessia. We’re not safe here.”
I’m numb. My body moves on autopilot as Romiro pulls me to my feet. I glance back at Nonna, my heart breaking as I see her lifeless form slumped in the chair, my Mamma’s hands still gripping her arm as her sobs fill the air.
The sirens grow louder and closer, but all I can hear is the sound of gunfire, the screams, the echo of my Mamma’s cries. The taste of blood and fear lingers in the air, suffocating, a harsh reminder of the world we’re entangled in, and the dangers that come with it.
