Page 3 of Daddy’s Firm Hands (Saddle Up)

MILO

I drive as fast as I can through the night with no destination in mind. With every mile my heart breaks.

For the brother whose death is my fault.

For the brother I left behind to face the mafia on his own.

And for the life I worked so hard to have and royally fucked up.

Every road sign is a blur. I can barely concentrate with Piero’s cologne hanging in the upholstery. Its musky, spicy scent reminds me of so many memories. Picking up subs, running errands, taking care of business. It reminds me of all the laughs and fights we had, too.

“Who cares if they forgot the banana peppers on your sub, P. It’s still gonna taste good, and we have a whole jar of them at home,” I say, trying to calm him down. His face is red, and he looks like he’s about to go off the deep end.

“You’re so fucking dumb sometimes, scamp.

It’s the principle. I ordered and paid for something those morons didn’t deliver.

I work hard and deserve to eat the sandwich I paid for, and those fucking losers don’t get to ruin it!

Turn the car around, now. They’re gonna learn not to fuck with me,” he snaps.

“No, you’re going to blow up and start a fight. We’ve been going to Russo’s for years, I’d like to come back,” I explain, trying to calm him down and stop him from making a huge mistake. I know it’s no use though, because once he gets like this, he won’t stop until he lets it out.

“Pull the fuck over!” he shouted. “You’re not driving my car anymore if you’re not going to listen. You’re so thickheaded, it’s a wonder you know how to drive in the first place.”

Saying Piero had a temper is an understatement.

The slightest thing set him off. He always seemed to be angry, especially at Elio and me.

Tears roll down my face, making it even harder to drive.

Why can't I just remember the good times? I swipe the tears away, hating that they’re even there in the first place.

Why am I so emotional? I hate not being in control of myself. The safety sensors go off, and I swerve to the right, narrowly avoiding side-swiping another car. I guess Piero was right–I really am a bad driver.

My bones feel heavy with exhaustion. Driving isn’t safe right now, and I pull off at the next exit, entering the town of Swallow’s Point, Ohio. I chuckle to myself. Swallow .

I drive through a small town filled with colonial and ranch style homes.

Passing a school and a grocery store feels so ordinary when you’re used to traveling busy, congested city streets.

I come to what seems like the town’s Main Street, like something out of a holiday romance movie.

The well lit streets are clean, and people mill about from shop to shop in no particular hurry.

An ice cream parlor on the corner stands out.

Two little boys sit with their dad, splitting a giant ice cream sundae.

If it wasn’t for the mafia, would my dad have taken my brothers and I to an ice cream shop like this?

Would we have spent our Saturday nights hanging out together instead of torturing people and hiding dead bodies in the meat freezers?

Maybe we would have had normal childhoods where we got to know our old man beyond his body count.

Something tells me he’d still be a shitty Dad, even without the mafia.

I spend the rest of my drive through town thinking of what was, and what could have been. The mafia gave me just as many things as it took away from me. Was all the money and status worth the pain, danger, and lack of normalcy?

The houses get further apart, replaced by woods and open fields. On the outskirts of town, I see a little dive bar, called Rainbow Spit.

Ha! Spit…Swallow. This town is hilarious.

The rainbow flag banner outside lets me know I’m welcome here. And with all the bullshit going on in my life, I need a safe space right now.

I never told either of my brothers—or anyone for that matter—but I’ve known since an early age that I wasn’t straight.

I don’t label myself gay or bi either. I find beauty in the human form regardless of what’s between someone’s legs.

When I was a child, I was equally attracted to the entire cast of The Mummy , and that was all the confirmation I needed on my sexuality.

It’s not like I’ve had a ton of time to explore it though.

Between running jobs for Rocco and helping Dad with the butcher shop—both the front and back of house activities—I only had time for hookups.

And the people I’ve hooked up with were based more on convenience and satisfying an immediate need, not anything more meaningful.

I’m not sure what I’d do with a relationship. Or how I’d even keep one when I can’t talk about most aspects of my life. I can only imagine how awkward it would be to talk about my day with a significant other.

“Hey babe, how was your day,” they’d ask.

“Oh you know, hunted down a member of a rival gang and beat the shit out of them for information. Then I sold crates of illegal guns and ammo, and had to collect some debts the old fashion way. Oh yeah, I sold some knock off prescription drugs, too.”

A lead weight settles in my gut as I think about the things I did for Nueva Notte . I guess I don’t have to worry about that now…because my old life is behind me. Instead of being too busy for a relationship, I’ll be too busy trying to stay alive as long as I can.

Make no mistake, Rocco will find me, it’s only a matter of time.

After taking a deep breath, I go inside and sit at the bar.

As I finish my second scotch, a couple sits next to me.

They seem to be in their late thirties, with matching wedding rings.

The man is dressed in a blue button down and gray slacks, and his wife is wearing a black sundress with sunflowers on it.

He’s a decent sized guy, almost six feet.

Handsome in a professor kind of way with his thick black framed glasses.

She’s gorgeous, with a heart shaped face and pouty red lips.

They get their drinks, and I hear the man’s soft voice say to the bartender, “And get him one of whatever he's having.”

They both smile at me, their faces warm welcoming invitations. I sigh. It’s just my luck that an attractive swinger couple hits on me when my entire life is hanging by a thread. The bartender brings me another scotch, and I give them a small smile, mostly out of courtesy.

“If it were any other day I’d love to, but you caught me at a bad time,” I tell them as a gesture to my face. Smiling hurts, and I don’t think I’d be any good in a group activity situation.

The woman turns to me, looks me dead in the eye and says, “I figured. Your eye is swollen and you have bruises and cuts everywhere. You look sorta miserable, too. What’s got you in the dumps, handsome?”

Her husband leans in, giving me a thoughtful once over. “You have some blood on your neck. Are you in trouble?”

Maybe it’s the booze, knowing I’ll eventually be caught, or because I ran out of people to let down, but I instantly trust these people.

Something about them seems genuine. So I tell them an abridged, scrubbed-down version of what happened—basically that my brother got hurt in our line of work, and because I didn’t listen to him, his death is my fault.

“I doubt your brother’s death was your fault. Whatever happened to you–” she says, emphasizing the ‘happened’ part like she knows I edited the story a ton— “Was because of an accident.”

“Yeah, sounds like you have some survivor’s guilt,” the husband says.

I know it wasn’t an accident. It’s my fault.

If I didn’t try to play Rambo and be the hero, if I listened to him, I wouldn’t be sitting in some random bar in Ohio talking to a beautiful couple I can’t play with because my body is mangled from a shoot out and a car crash.

Piero and I would be sitting at home, counting our cut of the profit while watching some trashy reality show.

Elio would be cracking up at how silly the people on TV are.

My family may not be perfect, but I’d rather be with them instead of feeling utterly alone. Broken.

“Maybe…” I trail off, thinking about Elio. Hopefully he’s safe and staying out of trouble.

“If you keep driving west, you’ll eventually hit some open country. Might be a nice change from the city you probably came from,” the wife says. She’s awfully perceptive. Or my Rolex and Yankees hat give it away. I make a mental note to get rid of the hat ASAP.

She has a point though. If my days are numbered, I want to at least spend them doing something more meaningful than running drugs and weapons and torturing people. The mafia life doesn’t lend itself to enjoying life.

There are a ton of big state parks out west…maybe I can camp and gaze at the stars. Or see some real trees. I never left NYC, except for one trip to the Hamptons to guard Mr. Vettore. Spending time in the great outdoors might be the perfect plan.

I spend a few more minutes talking to them and politely turn down their offer to stay with them.

I’d be way too tempted to do more than staying, and I can’t afford to get close.

Anyone who helps me will be on Nueva Notte’s radar.

I won’t put it past Mr. Vettore to punish me by hurting innocent people before he puts me down.

I ask the bartender to call a taxi, then grab my bag from Piero’s car.

Unfortunately, I need to leave it behind.

I’m sure Piero has a tracker on it in case it gets stolen, and Mr. Vettore’s cousin can easily find it.

My taxi driver is an older, quiet man who drives super slow.

A tortoise could walk faster than this. As annoying as this is, I envy him–he seems to be in no hurry, driving with a smile on his wrinkly face.

We eventually make it to a podunk motel several miles up the road.

Is it the Ritz? Fuck no. But it’s got a bed, a shower, and a television, so it’ll do.