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I set the glass down on the side table and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. In the past, I’d only drunk at parties or to celebrate something with fellow Made Men. Drinking alone had started after Serafina got kidnapped and my friends died because of my idiotic attempt to save her. Alcohol had become a way to numb the guilt, the anger, the worry, the sadness.
In our world, men were supposed to appear invincible. Admitting any kind of weakness was out of the question. Maybe I had a problem, but I was in control. I could stop if I wanted to. But if I refused to drink with company, people would eventuallyask why. If I mentioned I didn’t drink at all, they’d think I had a problem. They’d see it as a weakness—something I couldn’t risk. I was in control. Emma was simply sensitive because of her past. I got it. The past clung to me too. I downed my whisky. I was in control, and Emma would soon realize it.
In the following two weeks, I tried to drink only with company and not at home. It worked out except for a few minor slips when Leonas drove me up the wall with a risky maneuver. The brat wouldn’t get himself killed while under my protection.
But my good intentions went to hell when the anniversary of my friends’ deaths loomed on the horizon. Renato offered to join me at their graves, but I declined. This year, I didn’t feel like company. Of course, Emma knew something was up and came into my office the night before the anniversary of the attack on the Falcone mansion and the brutal deaths of my friends.
She was already in a flimsy white nightgown, her curls trailing down her slender shoulders when she moved toward me. I sat in my desk chair, a half-empty bottle of bourbon on the desk and a half-full glass in my hand. I met her gaze over the rim as I downed the rest of the liquor.
Emma’s eyes were concerned, not accusing. I would have preferred her anger. “Tomorrow is the day you lost your friends, right?”
Her voice was gentle and careful as if she worried I’d break down at the mere mention of it. I had never broken down inpublic. I hadn’t even cried after their deaths. I kept my emotions bottled up as deeply as I could.
“The day they got murdered because of me, yes,” I said, pouring myself another glass. Emma watched but didn’t say anything.
“It’s okay to be sad, you know? Even as a Made Man, it’s okay to be sad to have lost someone.”
Sadness wasn’t at the forefront of my emotions anymore. It hadn’t been in a while. Now it was mainly guilt, regret, and bitterness.
“Mostly, I’m angry with the stupid Samuel of the past,” I admitted after another gulp. Heat spread in my insides, and the numbing effects of the alcohol were becoming apparent.
Emma moved even closer and touched the hand resting on the armrest. “He did what he thought was right. He wanted to protect someone he loved more than anything else.” Her voice vibrated with emotions.
I took a deep gulp, my heart clenching. “And she betrayed me for a man who is incapable of love, a man who kidnapped and brutalized her.” Emotions from the past came up, but I squashed them. Sofia wanted contact with Serafina. Maybe she hoped it would all make sense then, but over the years, every contact with my twin had made her decisions of the past make less sense to me, and it made me regret my own choice all the more.
“Do you want me to come with you when you visit their graves tomorrow? That’s what you’ll do, right?”
“In the afternoon. Their families will visit the graves in the morning. But I don’t think you should come.” It was a deeply personal moment.
Emma curled her fingers around mine. “I might not be able to walk, but I’ll carry your worries as if they’re mine, Samuel. You don’t have to shoulder all the problems by yourself. I’m your wife, and I’m here for you,always.”
I regarded my wife. She obviously wanted to help me. Maybe she needed this even more than I did. I had been pushing her away in the past few weeks—not that I’d allowed her a deep look into my heart before that. I emptied the glass and gave a terse nod. “Maybe then you’ll understand why I feel the way I do.”
Emma smiled, then pried my fingers off the armrest. “Will you come to bed? It’s late.” Her eyes flitted to the now almost empty bottle.
I nodded and got to my feet. I needed to feel and taste Emma to distract myself. The alcohol didn’t do the trick today. Sleep was out of the question anyway.
I returned home in the early afternoon to pick up Emma. She was dressed in a dark blue dress and a cardigan of the same color with very little makeup. Maybe this was her way to pay respects to the dead. I too had chosen a dark suit for once, though I doubted the dead cared what we wore.
We were silent on the ride to the graveyard, and I was glad Emma didn’t try to make small talk. I was on edge, had been all day, and the flask I’d emptied before I’d picked up Emma hadn’t helped in the slightest.
If she could smell the alcohol on me, she didn’t show it. I parked in my usual spot right in front of the south gate entrance. Emma and I followed the fine gravel path I always took, then stopped in front of Arlo’s light gray granite family crypt. It was close to the pathway, so Emma only had to cross a short distance of grass. However, the grass slope was bumpy, so I pushed herthe rest of the way until we stood right in front of the pyramid-shaped crypt.
Over the years, the number of flowers put down on the anniversary of their deaths had become fewer, and as I stepped inside the narrow, dark crypt, I didn’t find a single flower on Arlo’s headstone. I put down the white carnations Emma had bought before I’d picked her up.
I shifted to the side so Emma could look inside. The space was too narrow for her. It was the smallest of the three crypts we’d visit today. Arlo’s father had died two years ago during a fight with the Bratva, and his mother had taken her life a few months ago. Now it seemed I was the only one still mourning him. I too only came once a year now.
“I’m sorry, my friend,” I murmured, then motioned for Emma to move back. Together, we left and traveled in silence toward Enea’s family crypt two graves down the aisle.
His grave had two bouquets on it. One from his younger sister and one from his parents. In the past, his fiancée had put flowers there too, but she was long married and had two children. Emma regarded me closely, but my expression was a cold mask. If she hoped to find a crack in it, then her chances were the best at Domenico’s grave.
When we moved on to his grave, I felt a flood of memories rising. I rarely allowed them anymore, but they sometimes still came at night, but on the day of his death, I always let the memories take hold of me. Emma and I entered the white marble crypt of Domenico’s family. His grave was covered with flowers as always, and the photo of him and our group of friends, minus myself, sat in front of it. I got down on my haunches and touched the grave. Briefly closing my eyes, I remembered the look of agony on his face before he died and his cries for his mom and his begging. “I’m sorry, my friend.”
Emma touched my shoulder. I glanced at her. Tears brimmed in her eyes. Tears I would never allow myself. She gave me a small, emotional smile.
“Do you understand now? Can you see what my actions have done?”
“I understand that you’re judging yourself because of what you know now, but I think you would forgive yourself if you reminded yourself of what past Samuel knew: that your twin was in the hands of the brutal enemy, that she was being tortured and possibly raped, and that nobody would risk to save her, except you.”