The Crime of Loving

He was powerful, skillful. Trained. As his body twisted, he carried his right fist down my stomach in anger. I bent in pain and gasped for the breath taken from my lungs. Dazed by the ache and loss of air, I had no time to react to the agonizing drag of his fist on my face. Again and again. I held on to the throbbing anguish of his hands and blocked his last punch. Its force drove my back to the ground. His body rushed over mine, and I shot my knee into his groin. At last, I saw shock and pain sweep through his hardened eyes. It was quickly forgotten as his scowl threatened death. His heavy hands and fingers wrapped around my throat. I couldn’t smell the rain, blood, or the rotting house. Not while my windpipe burned in misery.

Letting go of his deadly eyes, I scanned the floor for a weapon. I didn’t have long before my body would pass out or accept the afterlife.

Mamma’s footfall distracted me, and his hands slacked slightly. He’d heard her too.

I didn’t face her gurgling sounds, the anguish that bounced off her body, or the slaps her small hands achieved on his skin. It was impossible for me to face her in defeat.

Then, I felt it.

The cool metal against the tips of my fingers. The handgun that mocked life at its distance.

With the little strength I had left, I inched further to my right. It was such a small movement that he didn’t feel my body slithering below.

Battered knuckles gripped its power. Index finger curled, weakening the fearful void. My palm was the one to answer the lifeline call.

I could now face my mother’s frightful gaze. It was bloodshot and filled with unshed tears. She scratched his arm over and over, but it only forced him to apply even greater pressure to her thin neck. He loosened his grip on me as he concentrated on her. With his hand seconds away from crushing her windpipe, Mamma’s eyes held an apology. They held long conversations and years of love.

And yet, her eyes only saw me.

Trapped by them, my chest bounced in burning heaps of silent pleas for her to hold on.

You can’t leave me.

I knew what had to be done. With no hesitation or remorse, I raised my right hand. His foul smile that was aimed at Mamma vanished as he felt the Grim Reaper’s icy touch under his jaw.

His head fell.

His eyes widened.

And I pulled the trigger.

I was the last thing he saw before the bullet penetrated his head. Blood splattered the ceiling in vivid red. The sight of it made it my new favorite color.

The color laced with life and twisted with death.

The blast echoed along with the thunder as his head bowed and his body slumped forward.

I let his weight drown me in the quiet.

I allowed his dead figure to numb my exhausted and beaten body as a reminder to never embrace any weaknesses.

And as I lay beneath him with his blood on me, I failed to feel any remorse.

The rain had washed off the gore, but I kept the sin nearby. Mamma and I didn’t speak a word. We just walked out and didn’t look back. I should have talked to her. Asked for the truth. Hugged her tight. Or watched her love-ridden eyes for a while longer. Instead, I passed out in the passenger seat and woke up with a bitter future under a flickering streetlamp.

ALESSANDRA

Italy

The early morning sky came alive with peaking sun rays. The dark corners were slowly losing ground to the bright beginning of the day. A farewell whisper of the night vanished as I watched the fight end. A fight that could never be won because, after darkness, light always shone. It was inevitable, time.

I hadn’t missed a sunrise since I’d left the States as a child, knowing it could be my last in peace. I knew this day would come. I had wished I could have been forgotten, but the more years passed, the more I understood duty wasn’t something I could avoid.

I was a Zanetti.

Duty ran through my veins, as did the countless deaths my last name carried.

Fully dressed, I sat at the foot of my bed staring out the window, taking in the last peaceful Italian sunrise with a pounding heart. Each beat tallied the seconds, the minutes, I had left.

The ringing of an incoming call broke the bitter silence inside my room. The two men that stood by my door shifted, but I paid them no attention.

It didn’t matter if my guards allowed them in. I wouldn’t follow them without hearing the order from my grandfather or another family member first. I wasn’t naïve; I was born into an unconventional lifestyle that demanded caution.

My grandfather lived on the outskirts of Salerno, quietly and heavily guarded. A port city just southeast of Naples, Italy. Built on the ruins of a Roman temple where the calm waves of clear blue water promised to soothe out your troubles. A place I left shortly after receiving my first structural job. I should’ve never left Nonno’s house, even for the sense of independence.

Because after all the years of being him and I, their presence meant my time with Nonno was over.

With my palm stretched, I waited for the weight of his phone while my attention remained out the window. The ringing grew closer until I silenced its shrieking sound.

No hello, no pleasantries.

I knew who placed the order. Aldo. My eldest brother. The next in line to the New York Mafia.

“It’s been years, Aldo,” I spat with the weight of my future. “And yet, you sent two goons to infiltrate my home. This is not the way to get my attention.”

“I’m not looking for your attention.” Dark and detached, he voiced, “Duty calls.”

“Who is he?”

“You have two hours before your flight leaves.”

“Wait, Aldo!”

“See you soon.”

The line disconnected, and my time to stall was over. I took one last look toward the golden rays, a farewell to the shimmer of freedom as the weight of my duty rolled through my mind with thundering clouds. I stood ready to face my fate: an arranged marriage.