“Don’t call me that,” Tino whispered on instinct as his eyes got heavy again.
“Yeah, I guess you’re not ma’s baby anymore.” Romeo choked as he said it. “You haven’t been for a long time.”
Then his brother, who’d spent almost three years surviving in prison and a year of jail before that, broke down and started sobbing. Why, Tino wasn’t real sure. The hole in Tino’s thigh or Nova puking in the basement, or Carlo standing guard over them even if Romeo didn’t want him there.
Luckily, the rest sort of faded out for Tino.
That was all he remembered the first night, both of his brothers losing their ever-loving shit and Carlo like a rock, protecting the Borgata’s secrets from Romeo, hiding his own emotions like his breakdown at the Savios’ never happened. Instead letting the world see the Washington Heights guido with a big mouth and bigger attitude designed to hide the darker sins.
Unappreciated as usual.
Taken for granted, even by Nova, who left him there with Romeo, knowing he would protect him the best he could.
That was what enforcers did.
They protected the family, and they hid their pain deep, deep down, after lots of practice, because enforcers always had the worst fucking luck and the saddest stories. So maybe it wasn’t Nova’s fault he ended up selling Tino’s soul in the back office over Raul’s Cantina on Ninth Avenue in Hell’s Kitchen.
Maybe it was his fucking destiny.
Something impossible to hide from, and Tino couldn’t blame anyone for it.
It was just who he was.
A whore for Cosa Nostra.
Only this time he was a whore with a gun.
* * * *
Recovery sucked ass.
Aided largely by being stuck in the fucking basement and Romeo being pissed the hell off the entire time.
Not kinda pissed, but biblically pissed. Part-the-Red-Sea and kill-armies pissed. Hate-everyone-in-the-don’s-mansion pissed.
Pick-fights-with-the-Morettis’-lead-enforcer pissed, to the point that Carlo said one morning when Romeo went to meet with his probation officer, “I know you love him, but I think I have to clip your brother on principle. I haven’t had a motherfucker talk to me like that”—Carlo paused as if thinking—“ever.”
“We lied to him all this time. Now, to get out and find Tino beat down by another Borgata…” Nova sighed and rested his head against his folded arms on Tino’s bed. “He has a right to be pissed.”
“I think the don’s gonna write his name on a piece of paper,” Carlo warned.
“Please don’t let him do that.” Nova raised his gaze to Carlo on the other side of the bed. “I’ll chill Romeo out. I’ll rein him in. Just let him be pissed for a little while. His baby brother has a bullet hole in him, and his back is torn to shreds. Trust me, that’s not an easy thing to deal with. He’s justified.”
“Thank God he doesn’t know all of it,” Carlo whispered, like he didn’t dare say it out loud, but did anyway because he was Carlo. “Can you imagine what kinda fucking bear he’d be if he found out all the Mary shit?”
Tino grunted at that, feeling all his defenses go up. He rolled over, turning away from Carlo and rubbing his wrist where his band used to be. Tino felt naked without it, but he couldn’t tell them that. He couldn’t rage at Nova for taking away the network he’d used to survive for so long. He couldn’t explain that as fucked-up as it was, a part of Tino mourned the loss of his band. With it, he knew there were people out there who cared about his pain. Even if they were strangers, he always knew there would be someone who could find him and understand.
He’d never hear that he mattered again, and it left him feeling lost and alone.
He closed his eyes to hide from Nova, the same way he’d learned to hide from Romeo when he was hovering over him, never fully buying the story they’d fed him that Tino nearly died for fucking a made man’s wife. Maybe some part of Romeo knew the real story was too much to bear, and since the lies closest to the truth were always the best ones to tell, they’d left out the underground-sex-slave situation.
Just Tino being a typical Siciliano, starting young and making mistakes for pussy. And the Savios took it out on Tino, beating him, whipping him, covering up the marks of Tino’s father with marks of their own.
How nice and neat.
Now all that shit that happened when he was twelve never needed to come up. Just like the Mary shit never needed to come up. Romeo could live out the rest of his fucking life and never know what going to prison caused.
He could be part-the-Red-Sea pissed at Nova and Tino instead.
