Page 47 of Redemption
I think of Aurora leaving at the tender age of eighteen, knowing nothing about the world that could swallow her whole with a single bite, and empathy that I’ve never felt before surges through my chest.
“I’m surprised it didn’t kill them.”
Marco looks back to me. “Indeed. But it did not.”
“Where did you go first? Japan?”
He shakes his head. “No, that was much later. First, I went to Kathmandu.”
“Nepal?” The shock in my tone makes the question louder than I expected.
“Yes. I wanted to climb the Himalayas.” He smiles wistfully. “I was an adventurous one.”
“And did you?”
His nod is slow. “I did. For three years, I lived and climbed where most people could not survive. Sherpas, snow, and ice were my only company. I found God in the Himalayas. It was life-altering.”
I try to picture my brother at eighteen, and instead, I can only see myself—a young gangster running the streets of New Orleans without a clue as to what he was doing, but doing it anyway because it felt like the only way to survive.
“That’s incredible.”
“It was incredible. My spiritual journey began, and it kept me away from Italy for over a decade.”
“Where did you go next?”
“Thailand. After all the snow and cold, I wanted warmth and sun and beaches.”
Stunned that my brother has lived many lives, I eat silently with one hand while waiting for him to continue.
“In Thailand, I fell in love with martial arts. I studied under a Muay Thai master who let me live in his home. With my long hair that I hadn’t cut since I left home, I mopped and cleaned and became a warrior under his tutelage.”
“Incredible,” I whisper again.
“It was. He was a wonderful man. A bachelor who was married to martial arts. He taught me discipline, strength, and commitment to ideals greater than myself. It was the education of a lifetime.”
My brother and I may look the same, I can’t help but think, but we are two completely different men.
“That’s how you put Remy de Marchand to sleep?”
“That was a choke hold from my training in Japan. My love of martial arts took me there later. I competed against warriors, earning a few belts even. I still have them, although our father did not approve when he learned of what I was doing.”
“Who cares if he approved? That’s incredible.” I find myself using the same word over and over because nothing else seems to fit this story of my brother’s.
“They were good days of my life. Very good days.”
“And the body suit?” I ask, glancing down at the ink encircling both wrists.
“I saw the Yakuza at many of the fights when I competed. I wanted to look like them—albeit Italian with long, braided hair and a short beard. I found a tattoo shop where it was rumored they had their work done, and I took a chance by going there. It ended up changing my life once again.”
“The tattoos?” I ask, beyond curious.
“Those, too, but before that. I saved one of them from an assassination attempt. The shop would never have dared ink me with one of their body suits but for the Yakuza whose life I saved. He paid for all of it. He made sure his artist did his finest work, thankfully with modern machines instead of by hand, in as little time as it could take.”
“I’ve always wondered how long they endure the pain for those suits.”
“Over a hundred hours. And I felt every single stroke of those needles on my skin.” He turns over his wrist, fork in hand, and looks down at the ink. “It was worth it.” Glancing back up at me, he adds, “Even though our father was horrified when I finally came home and he saw me.”
Feeling like I’m figuratively on the edge of my seat, I ask, “What did he say?”
