Page 1 of Bitter Poetry

PROLOGUE

DANTE

Today, we laid my father to rest after he finally lost his battle with heart disease. My mother had built her world around him. Preparing for his funeral, and all the legalities that surround somebody passing, has given her a purpose and focus amid the grief. But that’s over now, and she will struggle in the vacuum left behind.

Tomorrow, I’m going to sit my mother down, and we’ll have a conversation about her future. Change is coming for us all, whether we want it or not.

The bottom line: with my father gone, she’s not safe here.

The last guests have just left our family home where the wake was held. My brother, Christian is sprawled out on the couch, his head tipped back, his bleary eyes staring into space.

“Go to bed, Christian.”

“I’m good, thanks.” He lifts his head and defiantly takes another sip from the whiskey tumbler in his hand.

He might be a made man, but our mother still thinks of him as her baby, and I don’t like him drinking in front of her. He’s seventeen, I’m twelve years older with no siblings between us.I never thought of myself as the responsible adult, but with my father gone, I guess I’m going to have to step up.

I take the glass from him. “At least let your brain fully develop before you rot it.”

He grunts and rolls his eyes, but he does heave himself up, and after accepting a kiss from our mother, he heads up the stairs to his room.

We both watch him go.

“I’m going to miss him,” she says.

I get the impression she’s not only talking about my father.

“I know what you’re going to say.” Her hand squeezes over mine. “I didn’t think I’d want to leave. This home, so many memories.”

I love this house, so I understand her sentiments toward it. The Georgian-style brick dwelling reflects quiet prestige. My father’s position as consigliere demanded something grand—something that made a statement. But it was my mother’s touch that softened it, turning it into a home.

She’s still looking wistfully toward the door where Christian went. “He’s still so young, even if he?—”

She leaves it hanging.

Some people just thrive in the underworld. Christian has a clarity of purpose and violence is carved into his soul.

“You’ll look after Christian?” she asks.

I feel the tightening in my chest. Today has been rough on all of us. “Of course. He can move in with me.”

Christian doesn’t give credence to many people’s opinions, nor take advice easily. But he listened to our father. With him gone, it’s down to me to make sure he doesn’t go off the rails.

“I’ll have someone come around the house once you’ve”—left the country—“settled your affairs. Put covers over everything, make sure it’s looked after and maintained.”

“You’re right,” she says. “It will be easier, I think, knowing everything is as I left it, that I can come back if I choose to.”

I hope she doesn’t. Not that I wish my mother away. But it’s for the best and she will have the support of family in Italy—namely, my late uncle’s widow, whom she was close to.

Which is when the unraveling began.

“I thought Leon might attend the funeral.”

She’s fishing. “He has his reasons.”

“Your father was always proud of you, never forget that. And give my love to your cousin.” She motions for me to lean down so she can kiss my cheek.

My smile is rueful. “How did you know Leon was here?”