Page 10 of Vicious Intentions
The world doesn’t feel so big when you really think about it. Everyone hurts in one way or another. And if you can help even one person, just one, and make their life a little better, then I genuinely believe your own life becomes fuller, richer, more human.
My father listens without interrupting, pride softening his features. I don’t notice it right away, but it’s there. And for once, I don’t feel strange for being the way I am.
My mother says that acts of service and kindness are my love language. That I remind her of Grandma whenever I talk fervently about such things. She says her mother was just as passionate about making the world a better place as I am. Maybe that’s where I get it from. After all, I was named after her, so it makes sense that a little bit of my grandmother rubbed off on me.
I wish I had met her, though. There are questions I would have asked, given the chance. Did she like helping people because it gave her the same warm feeling in her stomach that I get? Because it gave her purpose? Or was she trying to level the playing field, even just a little?
The Bianchi family was a key figure in the Outfit, especially my grandfather, who spent most of his life drawing blood from his enemies. So, was her altruism born out of guilt, or was it genuine love for her fellow man?
Sometimes I ask myself those same questions, too. Would I be so driven to help the world if my family weren’t profiting from so much of what’s wrong with it?
I wish my answer didn’t change depending on the kind of day my family was having.
When we finally arrive at Sacred Heart, I glance out the window and see the same familiar faces climbing the building’s steps.
The year might have changed, but nothing else has. Not unless I do. And I don’t see that happening any time soon.
“Have a great first day back.Ti voglio bene,angelo mio,” my father says in farewell.
“Ti voglio tanto bene, Papà,”I reply in Italian.
I wrap my arms around him to give him a quick hug before rushing out of the car, so he doesn’t see my eyes starting to well up. If he saw, he’d ask questions. And I don’t want to tell him that I’m sad because it will be hours before I’m around someone who truly cares about me again.
With my backpack slung over my shoulders, I keep my head down as I walk up the steps and into the building. The halls are jam-packed with students of all ages, talking animatedly about their winter break and how excited they are to be back.
I keep walking straight ahead until I reach my locker. After stowing my bag, I head toward the chapel, since it’s mandatory to attend Mass before class starts. But just as I turn in that direction, I feel a strange vibration against my skirt pocket.
I slip my hand inside and remember that I still have Raffaele’s phone. Since the day he left it with me, it hasn’t rung once. And yet now it’s vibrating insistently, demanding my attention.
I pull it out, and when I see an unknown number on the screen, I bite my lower lip, unsure whether to answer or ignore it. Instead of doing either, I hurry to the nearest bathroom, lock myself into a stall, and stare at the screen.
The call stops, and disappointment sinks in for being too much of a coward to answer. But when the phone startsvibrating again with the same unknown number, I don’t wait for the second ring to finish before answering. “Hello?”
“Hello to you, too, beautiful. Miss me?”
I slide down the door and sit on the floor in utter disbelief.
“Rafe?”
“Were you expecting someone else?” He chuckles.
“I…” I stammer. “I didn’t know if you’d want to talk to me after…” I can’t bring myself to finish the sentence.
“You didn’t do anything,” he says, his voice lower now.
I don’t add anything to that. Yes, I wasn’t the one who killed his brother, but does that even matter when the person who did was my own flesh and blood?
All I can manage to say is what feels like the smallest word in the English dictionary. A word so inadequate, it could never truly capture the sorrow I feel for his loss, even if his brother was a traitor.
“I’m sorry.”
The line goes quiet, and for a moment, I almost believe he’s hung up on me.
“I know. Me too,” Raffaele says softly. That’s all he says. It feels like he’s placing a heavy stone over the whole event, acknowledging it briefly without disturbing what lies beneath. Because if he were to disrupt what lies beneath, it would mean I’d be the last person he would ever call. “Anyway… that’s not why I’m calling,” he continues. “I wanted to wish you luck on your first day back at school. So this is me. Calling you. To say, good luck today, kid.”
“Kid?” I smile, my chest warming at the fact that I’m actually talking to him. “Aren’t you only a year or so older than me?”
“Nineteen months, to be exact,” he says, teasingly. “I counted.”
