Page 32 of Bloody Savage God
His greeting pisses me off, making me wonder if it’s intentional.Up and about. As if I’d been bed-bound, too weak to even function. I grind my teeth to keep the insults that are flying around my head at bay, reminding myself that my father wouldn’t appreciate any disagreements during his funeral. Despite the life he lived, he was a religious man, and the church he loved is no place for me to air my frustration, even if I don’t share his religious sentiments.
So, I keep my mouth shut, wondering whether it’s Uncle Mario’s grief that’s overwhelming him the way my own is threatening to do to me, or whether he’s looking so grim because he’s pissed he’s only holding the third seat from the center isle, further away from where the rest oflafamiliacan see him.
The cynical thought and bitter taste that comes with it are a welcome distraction from the sight of the closed casket already sitting on the small platform from where the priest will hold his eulogy.
The service starts, but the words move past me without registering. Eventually, the priest invites us to move up front to pay our respects. As I stand in front of my father’s casket, my eyes remain dry. No tears stream down my face, and I almost mourn their absence, even though I know it’s better not to show any emotion openly. Not as a woman whom many in attendance would gladly see sidelined solely based on long out-dated stereotypes.Fucking idiots. Still, staring at the oak casket, I wonder if it would feel good to let out the grief that is burning like a fire inside of me.
It’s the first time I truly wonder about the other side of pain. I’ve always craved giving it, the act of hurting someone serving as a relief for the violent energy burning inside me. The energy that has to remain hidden because of the role my father placed me in. I never wanted to receive it. Never thought embracing pain, allowing yourself to actually feel it, could bring relief instead. For just a second, I wonder what it’s like to have someone hurt you long enough that you are able to release all the pent-up emotions you are feeling until you are drained and limp. Everything spent, and your mind empty.
The rest of the funeral proceeding is a blur of black suits and somber faces walking past me, Uncle Mario, and Eric to give us their condolences, but all I can focus on is the man I loved, the man who raised me, lying in that casket. Memories flood my mind and for the first time since seeing his body, I truly allow them in. It’s the worst time and place, but that wall I build around me has grown brittle and I can’t help it. I shake hand after hand, receive kisses on both cheeks, and nod my thanks, without truly seeing a single person. Politics forgotten for the moment.
My father was a good man, and unlike many others, he always gave me room to become better on my own terms. In fact, he had my back even when I doubted him.
The day of my first kill is most vivid in my mind, not only because of my father’s support or the fact that I shot a man in the face, but also because it was the day the violence in me stirred for the first time.
Unlike today, back then, my eyes had actually been bloodshot from the tears I spilled. I’d used a kitchen knife to stab one of my father’s men into the stomach after he put his hands on me in our very own kitchen. In some messed up head space, fourteen-year-old me had been worried about how my father would react.
The guy had been a made man.Family. Despite my father’s unwavering love, I’d doubted he’d approve of my violence against one of his men. Loyalty was worth everything in our world. That fear of violating one of the vital principles of our life, more than stabbing the guy, had made me bawl my eyes out as I’d run into my father’s office to tell him what had happened.
“What’s going on,tesoro mio?”
“Tommaso touched me.” Shame had filled me at the memory. “He grabbed my ass and pulled me against him. Tried to put his hand in my shirt.” I’d blurted out what had happened, half ashamed to even admit it, but knowing my father needed to know I wouldn’t have done what I did without provocation. “I took the kitchen knife and put it in his belly.”
His eyes had grown colder than I’d ever seen them. He’d ordered me to follow him, realizing, unlike me, that one stab wound to the stomach would have hardly taken the guy out.
From the kitchen, we’d followed the trail of blood out back. The soldier had known getting past the guards with a wound like his would have caused suspicion, so he’d tried to leave through the garden.
Suffice it to say, that hadn’t worked out for him.
After we caught the guy, my father had a couple of the soldiers bring him down to the basement. There, they had tied him up against the wall.
I’d stood there, staring at the man, when my father had given me a choice.
“Gianna, you are a beautiful girl, and beautiful women make men lose their heads. Men are animals. The lot of them. There are two ways you can handle it. Either you use your beauty and power to your advantage, or you will need to find a powerful man who’ll always protect you.”
Then he’d handed me a gun.
“I’m your father, so I’ll always make sure my little girl is safe, but you’ll have to be very careful with other men. It’s your choice. Do you want me to deal with it, or do you want to do it yourself?”
That day, I learned I prefer to hold power in my own hands. Had learned how invigorating violence could be. How satisfying.
I’d already known how to shoot, of course. My father had trained me with weapons early, so the first shot had gone straight into the man’s head. The second had gone into the guy’s chest. Two holes seeping blood, visible even though his head had slumped forward. It was an image I could still conjure up today, because I’d been so annoyed that the first shot hadn’t ended up dead center in his forehead, the wound tearing away the eyebrow over his left eye instead.
I’d been so grateful that my father had shown me his support, I’d wanted to impress him with perfect shots.His little perfectionist, he’d called me, chuckling, after demanding I explain my disgruntled expression.
Later that night, when the adrenaline had worn off, I’d cried in Mellie’s arms. My father had come in and brought me a hot chocolate, cradling my head and giving me a kiss on the forehead. And I’d known he was proud of me.
Today, I have no one to comfort me.
I push that thought aside as I enter the reception hall where a massive buffet has been set up. Eric directed me here, and a warning whisper in the back of my mind tells me I’m being stupid, letting my guard down when I know I should be especially careful and focused. With a shake of my head, I heed that feeling and ban the memories. Push any lingering grief down. I had my moment of pathetic weakness. If I don’t want to be seen as a weak princess, I need to start acting like a queen, and royalty doesn’t get the benefit of being so self-absorbed.
My eyes travel across the room, searching out the man I need to greet first. Riccardo Angelo is the head of the second Italian syndicate operating in the GTA, and he’s arguably the most powerful man here.
When I spot him, my teeth grind together, because of course my uncle has beaten me to it and is already talking to Riccardo. On the plus side, the Don of the Angelo syndicate looks absolutely bored, so whatever my uncle is going on about can’t be of much relevance.
Eric at my back, I make my way over to them.
“Riccardo, thank you for coming.” I say, interrupting my uncle mid-sentence.
