Page 35 of Vicious Intentions
“Yes,” he says, snapping his fingers. “That’s the word. I’ve been trying to think of it all day.”
“Rafe,” I say softly, knowing he’s trying to sidestep whatever has him so weighed down. “What’s really on your mind?”
“Nothing,” he replies quietly. “I just needed to hear your voice.”
“Well, I’m here,” I tell him. “And I’m listening. Tell me what’s wrong.”
The line goes silent, as if it physically hurts him to begin.
I wasn’t lying when I said that being friends with Raffaele for so long has given me insight into how his mind works. Raffaele likes to joke and keep things light, pretending that our lives aren’t as heavy as they are.
I’ve never judged him for that. If anything, I understand it. I enjoy our conversations when they stay easy and playful. Debating ridiculous topics, laughing over nothing at all. Our lives are intense enough without dragging reality into every moment we share.
Still, sometimes reality creeps in anyway, demanding to be acknowledged. And by the looks of it, today is such a day.
“Have the twins been inducted yet?” he asks out of the blue.
My forehead creases, caught off guard by the question. We never talk about Outfit orCosa Nostrabusiness. I make it a point not to ask him about what is happening in New York, and he does the same with my family. Talking about our families’ business with one another feels like crossing a line we are notmeant to step over, since it could put both of us in an impossible position.
“You know I can’t answer that,” I say carefully.
“Wow,” he replies after a beat. “That’s not the response I thought I’d get.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, guilt settling heavy in my chest.
“It’s okay. I get it.” He lets out a sigh. “You don’t want to betray your family. I just thought…” His voice trails off, the silence stretching again. “I thought we were past that. I thought I had your loyalty, too.”
I take a moment before responding, really turning his words over in my mind. “You’re my friend, Rafe,” I say finally. “I’ll always be loyal to you.”
“As long as I don’t ask about the Outfit, right?” This time, I’m the one who keeps quiet. “It’s fine. I get it. Whatever,” he says, his tone sounding bitter all of a sudden. “I didn’t even want to know if your brothers were inducted anyway.”
“Then why did you ask?” I probe gently.
“Because,” he exhales in frustration before finishing, “I wanted to know if it was as hard for them as it’s been for me.” My heart breaks the second the words leave his mouth.
“You’ve been inducted?”
“Not yet, but I’m on my way,” he grumbles. “I didn’t want to worry you, but I’ve been doing low-level work for a while now. Just to get my feet wet. But next year, when I turn eighteen, I’ll have to face the music and take the fuckingomertà.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, even though I know it offers him very little comfort.
“It just sucks, you know,” Raffaele says quietly. “Carlo promised me I wouldn’t have to worry about this shit. That I could be my own person. And then fucking Matteo…” He trails off, the curse hanging unfinished.
Whenever he talks about Matteo, there is always a trace of bitterness in his voice. Niccolò, he seems to tolerate better. Maybe even like him, in his own way. But Matteo is different, and I understand why.
After meeting him all those years ago, I can see exactly why a kind-hearted boy like Raffaele would resent him so deeply. To me, Matteo comes across as nothing more than a bully with too much power over his siblings. It makes sense that Raffaele would clash with him, especially if Matteo is forcing him into something he does not want.
“I wish I could be there,” I tell him softly. “I wish I could hug you.”
“Yeah,” he replies just as softly. “Me too. A hug would be really nice right about now.”
I wonder if anyone there can give Raffaele that kind of comfort.
A mother’s comfort.
He rarely talks about his mother, and when he does, there is always a quiet sadness in his voice. From the little he has shared, I get the sense that she might not be well enough to offer him much of the attention he needs. And Raffaele is starved for it. Perhaps that is one of the reasons we understand each other so well.
“Maybe,” he starts, hesitating. “Maybe one day I could come visit you in Chicago.”
