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Angels of Mercy Diary of a Quarterback Part I
Angels of Mercy Diary of a Quarterback Part I
Angels of Mercy Diary of a Quarterback Part I
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Angels of Mercy Diary of a Quarterback Part I

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Born in America but reared in their father’s home of Torino, Italy, Marco Sforza has led a fairly idyllic life. The Sforzas are an ancient and powerful family with a strong ducal past. They run a vast global empire that allows Marco to enter halls of power that most men only dream of. Yet, Marco is a boy who lives in a bubble of his family’s making.

When Marco returns to America to attend high school he grooms himself to become a rising star quarterback of the Mercy High Avenging Angels. He thinks his focus is his burgeoning football career. He is all to aware he is a boy made of pure light that is meant to be seen and noticed. He is comfortable there. Until he meets a boy who shines brighter than him. Elliot Donahey is that boy. But Elliot is a boy who craves shadow and darkness to keep himself safe through another hellish day of high school.
 
Before he realizes it, Marco’s world becomes undone by this boy. Trapped in a script all jocks are meant to follow, Marco does his best to fit in and play along so he can play the game he loves, but this boy who hides in the shadows begins to consume his every thought and emotion.
 
Despite the script he’s been given to date girls, have sex, and hang with his teammates and follow along, Marco finds himself on an emotional pendulum where following that jock script only brings him further away from that world to circle the boy hiding in the shadows. Can Marco find it within himself to push against what others expect of him to find his way into Elliot’s arms? Even with all the fame, money and prestige his family brings to the table, will it be enough to gain the interest of a boy who only wants to hide from everyone?
LanguageEnglish
PublisherAkwekon Media
Release dateNov 14, 2017
ISBN9788827517703
Angels of Mercy Diary of a Quarterback Part I

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    Angels of Mercy Diary of a Quarterback Part I - SA Collins

    Errata

    Italian translations provided by: Marco Guzmán, J. Scott Coatsworth, Fabrizio Montanari, and Marco Munda

    Their assistance with the tone and Italian vernacular of the Sforzas in my works is immeasurable and I am humbled by their generosity.

    DISCLAIMER

    Angels of Mercy and its derivatives are a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

    Angels of Mercy - Diary of a Quarterback - Part One

    Date of Original Publication: 01 May 2016

    © 2016 SA Collins and Akwekon Media -

    sacollins.com / akwekon.com

    Graphic Cover Design Composition/Typography - SA Collins and Akwekon Media

    Graphic Elements (in part):

    Betochegas - Football series

    Angels of Mercy - The Complete Works

    Angels of Mercy - Volume One: Elliot

    (His Summer of Love)

    Spring 2015

    Angels of Mercy – Volume Two: Marco*

    (The Fall of the Sforzas)

    Autumn 2015

    Angels of Mercy – Volume Three: Pietro

    (The Sins of the Solstice)

    Autumn/Winter 2017

    Marco Sforza’s Series [Prequel Boxed Set] -

    Angels of Mercy – Diary of a Quarterback I: King of Imperfections

    Angels of Mercy – Diary of a Quarterback II: Prince of Mistakes

    Spring 2017

    Elliot Donahey’s Companion Novel -

    Angels of Mercy – Phoenix In The Fire

    (* Companion to Angels of Mercy – Volume 2: Marco)

    Early Spring 2016

    As Above, So Below…

    I have more respect for a man who lets me know where he stands, even if he’s wrong. Than the one who comes up like an angel and is nothing but the devil.

    - Malcolm X

    The wings of Angels are often found on the backs of the least likely people.

    - Eric Honeycutt

    A pillow for thee will I bring, Stuffed with the down of angel’s wing.

    - Richard Crenshaw

    I’m no angel, but I’ve spread my wings a bit.

    - Mae West

    Dedication

    For my mother, Carmen, my brother, Pablo,

    and my sister, Carmelita.

    I love you beyond all measure.

    The King of Imperfections

    - Part One -

    CHAPTER ONE

    Come What May

    The whir and hum of the family jet rang in my ears as Petey, Francesca and I boarded her. Four of the family’s security team followed close behind.

    I tossed the football I'd carried since leaving my bedroom into the seat nearest the cockpit, too tired and spent to care about any of this. I plopped down next to it, stretching my legs out before me. Frankie eyed me as she moved by. Sensing my absolute rancor for them both at the moment, she towed Pietro with her toward the back. The security team brought up the rear and the door closed behind us.

    I kept my gaze to the window and watched as the last of our luggage and personal belongings disappeared from view, swallowed up into the storage compartment of the plane. With as much as we’d packed, I almost expected it to belch after the last of it was loaded.

    My phone rang.

    Ciao.

    Figlio mio, how are you feeling?

    I sighed. Papa. Of course it would be Papa. I’d been expecting this all along only to somehow become disappointed that he’d waited this long before calling.

    I couldn’t blame any of them really; after all, I’d made quite a mess of things before our departure, even if I hadn’t witnessed the outcome. The family moved swiftly when it all started to collapse around me. I glanced back at my brother settling into his seat, recalling how he’d stuffed me, quite physically, into our walk-in closet and like Cinderella’s stepmother, he locked the door behind me, sealing me away from the horrific night’s events. Those harrowing and pleading screams from my boyfriend still seared the canals of my ears. Like molten lava they poured their way into my head, scorching their way, burning me from within. I hated them all for this. They allowed this to happen as much as I had.

    I’ll take care of it, Marco. Stay here, Pietro had said calmly two nights ago when it all went down, his voice a little too calm now that I thought on it. Those blood curdling screams, calling my name in absolute vain still haunted me. I could hear him now, my Tonio, though no longer mine, if he existed at all.

    If he did exist, there’d be no way in hell that they’d permit me to see him. Not after what he’d done. We’d crossed the one line the family would not tolerate – we broke the family honor. Our relationship had been a dangerous game as it was.

    Marco? Papa’s voice emanated from my phone again, pulling me from my tortuous thoughts.

    Si, I’m here.

    Talk to me, my son. Are you okay?

    "No, Papa. I am not okay. I don’t know that I’ll ever be okay. But, I glanced back at Pietro and Frankie having a very terse discussion. They spied me watching them and paused in their biting, whispered dialog long enough to see me. I turned around in my seat and continued with my father. It’s not like I’m the one to ask, am I? I think you should be talking to my brother. He seems to run things now. How very clever to come between us, after making me think we’d always be together. How deceptive. Well played, Papa."

    The security guys dispatched themselves along the length of the cabin. Why any of this was necessary seemed quite beyond me. So I’d fucked up. So what if there’d be a scene to take care of. It all took place within the confines of the family villa so, what of it?

    We took care of it, didn’t we? Or rather, didn’t they? I had no part in it. They wouldn’t let me be a part of it. Not now. Not after what they’d seen. There was no way for me to participate, other than having been at the root of it all. Nonna wouldn’t look at me after it all went down. I got a hug and a kiss from her as we left for the airport, but it had already changed between us and I didn’t know why.

    "Marco? Son. Talk to me."

    I glanced at the security guard seated across from me. He spent his pre-flight time adjusting his earpiece and then tapped out something on his phone, probably reporting to the security team back home that had protected our family for hundreds of years.

    Jesus, this whole fucking thing stunk. God himself probably could smell the damage to our family honor I’d caused.

    What the fuck was the guy’s name? Ennio? No, that was my uncle. Mauricio? Still not it … Nunzio! That was it. He didn’t appear too much older than Frankie.

    Papa, I sighed, knowing he wanted an answer, some sort of explanation on why things went the way they did. Only I didn’t have an answer, not really. Because by the time Petey had unlocked the door I had curled up into a ball on the floor, crying my fucking eyes out. Probably one of the few times my brother misread my emotions, he tried to pull me to him, thinking they were tears of heartbreak. How sadly he mistook their presence. The moment his hand touched my shoulder I decked him, hard. I scurried out of the closet, the irony of it not lost on me, and began the convoluted trek to the patio downstairs. Pietro’s calls chased me through the house. Anger coursed through my veins aimed solely at my brother that I couldn’t be near.

    Brothers forever …

    Yeah, fuck that shit, I remembered saying as I moved through the house only to stop cold as I opened the door to the patio to find blood congealing on the terrazzo tiles. The cleaning crew, called in at this ungodly hour, made their way from the house out to the patio and began to remove the remnants of my boyfriend from my life. I remember watching as they sponged it away, how cold it made me feel inside. I felt so disconnected from everything, especially from my family who I knew had moved swiftly to handle it and sweep it from our collective memory. They did it with dispassionate efficiency, sterilizing the last lingering expression of my first love.

    Pietro came up behind me and slowly turned me to him. Only this time I didn’t have the energy left to fight him. Instead, I sobbed. I couldn’t help it. I knew it was over; we were over, that amazingly beautiful boy and me.

    Marco … shhhh. That’s it, fratello mio. Let it out, Petey tried to soothe what couldn't be.

    Apparently I still possessed pockets of anger that needed cleansing as well. I pounded on his chest. I slapped him rather hard across his face. He took it. He let me take all my anger, my frustration, my desolation out on him until I sagged into his arms from the weight of it all. Without saying a single word he scooped me up and carried me upstairs back to our room, my face nestled in the crook of his neck. Without thinking, as if by rote, I breathed him in. Even in my despondent state, the scent of my elder brother calmed me like nothing else could.

    I did what I’d always done when the world seemed to conspire against me – I returned to my brother’s embrace. Even in my anger, nothing new came from it. Pietro would always be my champion, the one person in this world who would fight hardest for me, the one I trusted like no other.

    In that moment, as he gently laid me in the bed we’d shared for nearly a decade, I realized just how much he’d let me explore the man I was becoming. He never talked me out of something that I wanted to do. He’d even nudged me along when I was unsure of myself. Though as the soft caress from his hand along the side of my face, followed by the softest kiss to my temple, I knew he believed in me. He knew I had my own path to explore. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t continue to watch over me. I knew that now. I’d always known it really. Just never gave it as much thought as I did now.

    I knew he waited to see if I wanted to talk. Words seemed beyond me at the moment. So I chose sleep instead of talk. I slept the rest of that day and well into the next, only pausing every now and then to let my mind wander over our years spent in this house, the house of our father, probably even in this same room. The history of it all truly began to sink in. It’s what we Sforzas did. We knew no other way.

    Petey never left my side. He spooned me to him, his nose firmly planted at the base of my neck, his arm holding me firm.

    I didn’t eat.

    I didn’t speak.

    I didn’t have anything left to give any of them.

    I retreated.

    Our things were packed. Nonna came in and told Pietro, and me, though I feigned a nap while she spoke to my brother, that our father had the flight arranged. We would return to San Francisco later in the afternoon.

    It was done.

    Italy had ceased to be our home.

    At least for now.

    The pre-flight movement in the plane pulled me back from the hellish nightmare our departure from our ancestral home had become. This would forever color how I saw my new life in America. Admittedly, a bit over the top dramatic, maybe even operatic in scope with the way I’d behaved, but right now I didn’t really fucking care. That was Italian, too. If we knew anything, we knew drama.

    I watched the skyline in the distance as dusk settled along the horizon. My eyes scanned it – the last visage of the city I’d called home for the better part of my childhood. My beloved Torino, it was all I’d ever known.

    Marco?

    Oh yeah, the phone – Papa.

    Papa, do you mind terribly if we don’t talk right now. I just … can’t.

    Silence from him. Never a good thing, but I held my ground. I think he expected it of me.

    Very well. But when you do want to talk, I’ll be here. You know that. Te amo, Marco.

    Yes, I know Papa. I love you, too. I’ll see you soon.

    He sighed, a world of worry and concern laced that sigh. It came through the phone and cleaved its way into my heart, a heart that had little reason to continue beating just now. But it seeded itself there nonetheless.

    Ciao … he said softly.

    Ciao. I hung up and tossed my phone next to me on the double-wide chair.

    It’s time to buckle up, Marco, a lovely Asian attendant informed me. Her name badge said Yoshiko.

    Japanese. Cool. Whatever.

    I buckled up as I looked around the edge of my seat to see that Frankie and Petey had settled whatever little tiff they’d gotten into. He chatted on the phone, no doubt with Papa, as she scanned one of the several magazines she had in a carry-on bag. The flight would take us approximately thirteen hours so I guess she came prepared. I had no way to prepare for any of this.

    Tonio … I murmured. I didn’t know where they put him, if he even survived the night or not. No one said. Not Petey, not Papa, and certainly not Nonna. God, the shift in how she looked at me still cut. I still bled from that tense goodbye, an emotional trail of it tracing our drive to the airport.

    I still recalled her whispered words to Petey as she pulled him close. You’re his brother. See that he gets some help. It’s not too late to fix this.

    Fix this … other than my boyfriend being ripped from me I didn’t feel broken. Up to that moment, I felt pretty damned confident in who I am.

    Fix this … Yeah? I'd like to see them try. Fuck that. Fuck them all.

    The plane began the process of pulling away from the gate. I’d never flown in the family jet before. As private planes went, the Gulfstream jet was pretty fucking on the money with the whole jet setting lifestyle.

    Yeah, they can fuck that, too.

    You bet I was bitter. I silently sat watching the city in the distance, unsure if or when I’d see her again. If I’d ever see him again.

    Tonio … I whispered again, running a finger along the curve of the window sill in the plane. Non dimenticherò mai voi, mi amore.

    As the plane moved along the tarmac a thread of anger pushed its way through me. I unbuckled my seat and marched quickly toward Petey who glanced up at my swift approach. The security crew all unbuckled their belts and sat forward, ready for whatever I had planned.

    Marco, you need to sit down, Petey said, his eyes narrowing the tiniest bit as I approached him.

    I slapped his face with everything I had.

    I want answers!

    Not missing a beat, not reacting to the red mark that now graced his face, he unbuckled and stood up.

    Marco, enough! Get your ass back into that seat or I’ll make sure you don’t get up until we land. You can piss and shit yourself for all I care. I won’t have us detained and explain to Papa why your little outburst caused us to miss our window of getting out of here on time. Now sit the fuck down!

    I huffed, eyeing the security team that had moved in around me as the plane continued its way to our assigned runway.

    Answers … when we land, you better have them for me. Got it?

    One of the security team reached for my shoulder and I yanked myself free of him and pushed through them back to my chair. I buckled in and heard them all do the same. Several minutes later and we were ascending to our cruising altitude of 50,000 feet.

    San Francisco.

    For a moment I allowed myself to think about her. I’d always been intrigued by every movie or TV show I’d watched that had been set there. America, my new home awaited me.

    I didn’t speak to any of them for the rest of the trip. I sulked, I stewed. I flipped Petey off when he made his way back from the bathroom and had to pass me, stopping briefly to see if my mood toward him had changed. I made sure he saw that it hadn’t. I didn’t have anything to read to occupy my time. I supposed I could look up something online, but I didn’t have the energy to spend on it.

    So instead I decided to spend my time reclining in that wide seat, reminiscing, letting my memories pull me in, pull me away from this plane, my family’s influence, our affluence, all of it.

    Memories of a childhood. At one time golden, and filled with so much love. Those memories lingered and moved along to eventually find him. Memories of another boy, a boy who held my young heart in what would prove to be his very volatile hands eked its way into my thoughts.

    Pietro and I are loved by everyone we’ve ever come into contact with. It’s not bragging or saying we’re all that, but a simple statement of how blessed Petey and I are. We get it; we’re reminded of it nearly every day. It’s both a blessing and a curse. I realize just how full of ourselves that sounds. But I swear, it couldn’t be further from the truth. It can be a burden, at times, oppressively so.

    Though born in the States, at Stanford Medical, no less, Petey and I didn’t grow up there. While my parents love Petey and me very much, they just had other things on their minds when we pushed our way into their world.

    It’s not been an easy life to live sometimes. Our family life can appear very fractured, more by distance – both physical and emotional – and burgeoning careers than anything else. Still, we’re Italian so family means everything, even when you wished it weren’t so.

    Our lives read like some sort of fractured fairy tale, complete with a loving father, a self-absorbed wicked and oppressive mother, kindly grandparents, and two charming princes, Pietro and me – the heir and the spare.

    While we were wanted and loved, we ultimately also became a distraction. From the time they married, our mother became singularly driven to help our father succeed in his career as a new physician. She’d been born into a prominent American-Italian family in California that made its wealth in banking and finances, and he from a decidedly historically powerful family from the old country – a match the Gods of Rome would’ve approved.

    Though our father, Vincenzo, wanted a family, something had to give when we came along. His career came first. She tried, so the story goes, and muddled through it with the aid of a nanny. But I suppose we just became too much to bear when she had parties to plan, networking at the country club to sort out. We just didn’t fit into their social calendar which Mama swore was key to the family’s continued success.

    So at the tender age of three, off we went to our paternal grandparent’s home to be reared in the traditional Northern Italian way, the way our father and his three brothers had been reared.

    As a matter of history, the Sforzas go way back. And although the family is a fixture in Torino, our lineage traces to the ducal titles of Milano in its distant past. We took great pride in the history of it all. Our name carried a certain historical weight and context in modern Italian social circles. We weren’t the Medici’s, but then again, who was anymore?

    Petey often called it our hysterical past whenever its history came up, a moniker that never failed to make me smile. His eyes would just light up whenever Nonno Stefano went off on one of the family stories of antiquity and Petey’d get this devilish look and say, in his best Italian, "We’re the Sforzas – we’re so important, we’re hysterical." This often got a soft clap on the back of his head from either of our grandparents. It never stopped him and we noticed that Nonno and Nonna would share a small grin between them for his cheek.

    We took it for what it was: family, nothing more, nothing less. But one thing became clear to both of us – we had to be worthy of it at all times. Being a Sforza carried an honor to the name that we had to defend and uphold. While our Nonna Caterina was the fountain of love we craved in a mother figure, she also possessed an iron fist when it came to the family honor. There was very little left to interpretation when the family name and reputation became involved. And there was precious little that we could do that didn’t bear the Sforza banner loud and clear. A blessing and a curse.

    Petey and I adapted to our lives in Europe, blending in as much as native born Italian boys do. We wore it with pride. Our grandparents and extended family on my father’s side expressed enormous pride in our accomplishments whether academically or athletically.

    We played on the local football team as we grew and spent a great deal of time with close friends and cousins playing the game hard. Our bedroom bore banners, scarves and other memorabilia from our favorite soccer teams.

    We each had our separate passions in sport as well. A teacher at our school who had played college American football taught me how to pass the ball. I took to it like water. Papa bought me one the following Christmas and I often spent times with Professore Langford working on my passing skills. Fencing and sword play were quickly added as passions of mine and martial arts, diving and swimming for Petey. He was practically a Ninja fish.

    We grew up surrounded by culture, sport, and love, often in that order. Our family was nothing if not passionate; we were quintessential Italians to the core. I make no apologies for that. Neither would any of them. We are who we are. And we were nothing, if not hysterical. Laughter and love lit up our home more than the electrical lights that bathed it in a soft glow.

    As we grew older, my grandmother began to receive hints from our father that he’d been contemplating our returning to the States. Now that his medical career had progressed as he’d always hoped, he was of a mind that the time had come to bring his boys home. Though we felt the pull from him in his emails to us, we held out for as long as we could. Italy had become home to us. America, though seen through the lens of TV shows that were broadcast in Italy, seemed like a strange and distant place, like Disneyland, a place to visit. But who would want to live there? At the base of the Alps, in that part of the world we called home, nothing could say that plainer to the two of us than our beloved Torino.

    American by birth, perhaps, but Italian through and through.

    Our parents would often make trips to Italy for the summer months or the winter holidays. Petey and I gleaned that this was more in part from our father wanting to be near us, than Mama. We got that. The feeling became mutual. We spent time each year with them, so it wasn’t like we didn’t like being with our parents. It could often be just, well, strained, or awkward from time to time.

    Each summer they visited as we grew older, it would take us slightly longer to find our rhythm with them. We’d begun to be less and less impressionable young boys; our needs and attitudes had shifted and evolved by the time they’d arrive for another visit.

    We’d often Skype with Papa. Seeing the guilt and tremendous amount of love he had for us, we could see how hard it was for him to live with the choice they’d made in having us grow up as he had. We understood it; we loved him passionately whenever that guilt would take hold of his gaze, whispering to him, letting him know that we never blamed him for how things went.

    There was love there, to be sure. But not like it was with Nonno and Nonna. Our grandparents had very much become our real parents. Our actual parents were, well, they were academically our parents. The roles had very much switched. Grandparents for parents and vice-versa.

    Our real parents were who we’d spend a little time with, and then they faded back to America. To be honest, it always felt a bit disjointed, off-kilter when they were around despite how much our father tried to hold us close to him. It was very different story with our grandparents. They adored us, and we were deeply devoted to them.

    That wasn’t to say that there weren’t moments that gave us a glimpse of something more. It became very clear that if we were lucky enough to find our father alone, that we’d find the promise of what our life in America could be. Our father got it. I knew he did. There were moments when he’d tuck us in at night, apologizing for the life he gave us, his eyes soft and glistening with tears he held back. God, did he ever love us — there could be no mistaking that part of our lives. These quiet moments alone with our father meant the most to Petey and me. They were far too few, generally once or twice during their visits, but they were like little treasures we kept close to the heart when we were apart from him.

    Mama, however, was quite a different story. Mama never varied in being the composed one, moving with all the precision of a barracuda through torrential waters. She was a woman who could easily swim upstream and not lose a strand of hair out of her perfectly coiffed head. She was a force of nature – the kind that would crush ships, destroy towns, casting people to the wind. That isn’t to say, however, that she didn’t know how to play her cards when she visited.

    She made sure to always be gentle with us, motherly in her own unusual way. She never wavered from playing the part, though a calculated rivulet seemed to thread its way between us. She couldn’t be blamed for it. Petey and I just figured that it was who she was. In a way, we sort of felt sorry for her. Whenever she spent time with us, every time she watched us, it was tucked there, in the corners of her eyes, undeniable as the day was long: she really didn’t know what to do with us. There was a certain degree of fear buried in her gaze, like we were going to explode at any moment and cause her tremendous amounts of embarrassment. We were dangerous to her, dangerous to her plans, whatever they were.

    Nonna didn’t have many kind words for her. But she kept them to herself whenever my parents were around. Thankfully, those times were few and the tension from them bearable.

    I sighed.

    Those memories took a lot out of me. By then a light evening meal was served and I ate in silence. Pietro and Frankie seemed to have decided to leave me alone for the duration of the trip and for that I was eternally grateful. I could barely tolerate Nunzio sitting across from me, even if I knew he was a necessity. After Yoshiko cleared the meal away, I asked for a pillow and blanket. I wanted to doze for a bit. Within minutes of reclining the extra wide seat and pulling the blanket around me I slipped into a dreamless sleep.

    Five hours later I awoke to find most of the others napping. Even the security guy next to me had reclined a bit in his chair and had lulled into a light sleep. I wasn’t fooled. They were trained to sleep lightly. Any oddness in the cabin and they’d be awake and deadly within seconds.

    I glanced over the back of my seat and spied two of them in the middle of the cabin completely awake, leafing through a couple of car magazines that seemed to come from Frankie’s bag o’ entertainment she brought with her.

    I pulled my seat back into an upright position.

    I glanced out the window and spied nothing but clouds and in the very far distance what appeared to be the ocean. But at this height, it was hard to make out anything identifiable.

    My thoughts returned to my days in Torino. A wave of melancholy washed over me as the next wave of my childhood replayed itself back to me.

    When we were ten, Nonno Stefano became very ill. That winter became the bleakest on record for the family. Worry and fear became our daily meals, eking into the very fiber of our family life, taking the laughter and light that made us who we are. With every moment that he lingered along the edge of life it leeched away what little we had left to endure that long descent into despair.

    He made it through Christmas, but only just so; he never saw the coming year. He passed three minutes before midnight – stalling us from progressing with the rest of the world into a hopeful future. With the rest of the town celebrating the New Year, our family stood on the brink of emotional collapse. Instead of stepping into the light of a new year, our world slipped further into darkness. An oppressive silence enveloped us, strangling what little we had left.

    It felt so silent that at times it became stifling. The air became thick with it. I learned to hate silence. In that year of mourning, the light had been stolen from the Sforzas. Petey and I tried like hell to find a way to bring it back. But even for us, as resilient as we could be, we found ourselves in a well of darkness that we didn’t know if we would all come out the other side. Our parents stayed as long as our father had been able, but his practice called so they left three weeks after they’d arrived for the funeral.

    We barely noticed their presence, each of us emotionally lost, feebly feeling our way in the darkness from Nonno’s passing.

    None of us knew how much time passed before we all started to see light again. I think we all just sort of existed that year. Somehow we got through. We laughed a little, though it always felt bittersweet because the one laugh that completed us, that made everything seem right, had been silenced. It couldn’t be helped. Time alone would help get us past it all, even if we couldn’t see it then.

    It had been our first brush with death, and Petey and I struggled to find a way to deal with it. In every way Nonno’s passing felt as if our own father had passed. We felt it that deeply, but it was in our nature as young boys to fight against the oppressive grief that permeated every facet of our lives. We tried to bring the light back to us. We did everything we could think of, but the struggle against that grief-laden malaise nearly consumed us all.

    It is a malaise. No other way of seeing it, Pietro said one night as I snuggled up to him. It had been seven months since Nonno left us and we’d yet to see our way out of darkness. An avid reader from childhood, Petey cultivated words and expressions that always had a way to identify things for me. He often defined my world, gave it direction and purpose. I loved him so intensely that with the memory of Nonno’s passing, I secretly dreaded that I should ever be apart from my brother. I didn’t think I could bear that.

    Nonna retreated from the family for a while. For several months it went like that. Then, for reasons we couldn’t completely explain, she slowly began to invest her time in whatever Pietro and I did, choosing to watch us at football – a diversion suggested by her doctor, we thought – or something artistic we did in school. It became the little things in life that provided a path to becoming whole again. With smaller steps each of us took, brought us to a larger world. My brother and I provided a much needed relief from her solitude. We helped her through it all simply by being. It never occurred to us that it could be that simple. The best part? We were damned good at it. This, we could do.

    This is what colored my early years. I’d like to say that was all of it, that it’s what made me who I am. But it isn’t, and I would be less than truthful for saying so. The next year would change everything for me and to a great extent, for Pietro as well.

    With our thirteenth year looming on the horizon, Nonna decided to gift us with a big party for all of our friends. Petey and I felt overwhelmed with the prospect. Usually birthdays were a smaller affair, just close friends and family. Nonna decided that what the house needed, what the family needed, would only be satisfied with a big celebration. What we all needed was a healthy dose of life. Our birthdays were just the excuse.

    The guest list filled up quickly. Before the week was out we had close to sixty people confirmed that they were attending. Some of them Pietro and I barely knew, but no matter. Nonna came to life while planning it and for that we’d endure just about anything. It became the elixir we all needed. Through it all, we knew our Nonno would be proud that we found that particular Sforza light again.

    In the midst of all the preparations, Nonna gifted us with a bit of news that was over the top wacky cool – well, to a couple of soon-to-be teens at any rate. The party would have a casino theme with prizes and entertainment! A DJ would be hired so people could dance. Gaming tables and booths would occupy a large section of the enormous backyard where people could play with chips that would buy prizes from the treasure booth. The whole thing took on a circus-like atmosphere. For my brother and me, it meant nothing short of a thrill that we were going to be the center of attention in what many in Torino were now calling the party of the year.

    Boys and girls at our school began dropping hints, hoping they made the cut on the invitation list. Nonna said we could invite whomever we wanted as long as we updated her on the headcount so there’d be plenty of food and entertainment on hand. She didn’t want anyone to go home unfed or empty handed. By the time the party arrived, the guest list numbered close to three hundred.

    Our uncles and aunts were all pitching in with the planning. Zio Ennio, our father’s elder brother, and his wife, Violetta – Francesca’s parents – assisted Nonna with coordinating the caterers and the refreshments. Zio Rafael helped with hiring the local staff to man the gaming booths, which left Zio Marco (the youngest of my father’s brothers and for whom I was named) to fill in wherever he could.

    A certain level of pride began to color our lives again, though some small part of us felt a bit guilty. We collectively chose not to talk about it, but for anyone who knew the family intimately, you could see it plain enough on our faces. Just a trace, but there nonetheless.

    But life had to move on, whether or not you wanted it. This celebration poured life back into us and we became drunk with it. The biggest surprise presented itself in the form of our parents who flew in for the event. We were all going to be together!

    It was no family secret that Nonna and my mother never really got along. The feeling was mutual between them. Mama never went out of her way to appease or placate Nonna. It was one of the reasons why we felt slightly estranged from my parents. Our mother was always looking out for what was best for our father, for which our Nonna could scarce fault her. His career came first, even above her own wishes; whatever he wanted became what she wanted. He meant that much to her. We could see the love between them.

    It always felt to Petey and me as if we had to vie for any attention from them when Mama showed up. I wanted something like that for myself when I grew up, though not at the expense of my own children. It was one thing to know that you’re loved but quite another to know where it ranked when compared to your father and his goals. Nonna did her best to protect our father from reproach, even if she railed at his choice of wife. To her way of thinking whenever my mother did something that went against Nonna’s wishes then she became quella donna, that woman.

    We could laugh about it now, but Nonna had the right of it. She may be our mother, but she is definitely that woman to Pietro and me. It was for the better that we grew up where we did; otherwise, it would’ve been a miserable existence.

    Anyway, so the night of the event something truly magical happened: his name was Antonio Balducci.

    As the grandson of one of Nonna’s childhood friends, who split her time between her houses in Torino and Milano, Antonio lived in Torino like we did. He was three years older than me but at that time he seemed so much older, so much more confident than I could ever be. He was one of those guys who exuded confidence in his own skin, as if you couldn’t imagine him as anyone else. He was simply born to be who he was.

    It wasn’t cocky either, just a calm confidence in everything he did. Like a lovesick puppy, from the moment I met him, I followed him everywhere. He had an extensive music collection and did some DJing at local functions on the side. At sixteen you’d think that he’d be too young. But he was one of those boys who already was showing strong signs of the man he would become, easily blending in with boys three or four years older than he.

    Pietro seemed to like him too, but I noticed that from the moment I engaged Tonio (as he liked to be called), Pietro seemed to distance himself a bit from me.

    Petey and I were always together. We were a matched set. You never saw one without the other, people would always say about us. Yet, when we helped Tonio carry in some of his equipment from his family’s van to help him set up, I cornered Petey about his sudden shift in mood.

    Ho fatto qualcosa di sbagliato?

    He didn’t respond to my asking whether I’d done something wrong or not, he simply set down one of the cases of lighting equipment that he rolled in with a hand cart, shrugged without saying a word to me and proceeded to unpack the box. This was something that we didn’t do. We never kept anything from one another. I stopped what I was doing and moved quickly to him, trying to engage him in another way.

    I think Tonio is going to do a good job tonight. He certainly has a lot of equipment. I’ve never seen so much.

    I looked around. I knew my eyes were wide in anticipation with how it was all going to get set up, a little star-struck I suppose. Pietro just sort of sighed and shook his head slowly.

    "Did I do something wrong, Pietro?" I asked again, this time in English, which we reserved for when we wanted to speak in private.

    Rather than say anything at first, he simply pulled me close and hugged me tight before releasing me, his eyes meeting mine. Green to green – intense fire that only burned hot between us. When he did this we were of one mind; we moved together on everything.

    "You listen to me, Marco. You never do anything wrong. Okay? You and me, we’re always going to be …"

    Brother’s forever …

    Clinging together …

    Come what may …

    Come what may.

    A somewhat silly little rhyme he came up with a couple of years prior, something we said whenever we needed to support one another. What it did say, far beyond its simplistic words, proclaimed the absolute love I had for my slightly older brother that often burned with such intensity I couldn’t take it in all at once. It was that immense and all-consuming. But now, as I watched his eyes, I saw doubt creep in and make a home there for the first time. I didn’t understand it, but it made me tremble inside. Pietro never doubted me. Our pledge, however silly, said we were strong. It’s what bound us together. He placed a soft kiss on my forehead and he moved off, saying nothing more.

    I continued to help Tonio unload his equipment. Pietro had moved off to help the caterers. Every now and again I would spy him watching me interact with Tonio. Tonio was jovial; he liked to joke around a bit, even though he was very serious about his DJing gig – as he called it. He liked to use English terms whenever possible, mostly because he desperately wanted to escape the continent and play the more desirable venues in America or Britain. When I told him Pietro and I were actually American, he became far more interested in me. I felt myself flush that an older kid would even think I was cool in the smallest way. But he seemed to take a shine to me. I was soaring from the attentions he paid to me.

    I kept searching for Pietro throughout the setup of the party that afternoon. But I never did quite catch up to him until we were back in our room, taking a shower as we did since we were boys; he scrubbed my back and me, his. We’re twins, bound together in every way imaginable. Or so I thought.

    Pietro held his tongue that night, distant no matter how much I tried to engage him. Though in his defense, every time I looked worried he would simply gather me to him like he always did and hold me close and whisper that silly little pledge to one another. Yet each time that night, it seemed a little less firm, like a hollowness had crept in unattended. I hated that feeling.

    I watched him as he helped me into my new tuxedo. Nonna had gifted Pietro and me with them and sets of real shirt studs and cufflinks. The invitations made it clear that Monte Carlo chic should dictate the attire; everyone was expected to show up in their casino night best. All I could think about while Pietro helped me with my cufflinks was how I felt him slipping away from me.

    Stop it, Marco. Nothing is wrong, he murmured with a small glance into my eyes, catching me out for my wandering thoughts.

    But you’re not the same. Something is – I don’t know. It is just, I sighed sinking onto the end of my bed, … off.

    He sat down beside me and wrapped a brotherly arm around my shoulder, letting my head lull into the crook of his neck as I always did. Pietro knew best. He is, in every way he could be, my three minute and forty-three second older brother. He always watched out for me. My interests always came before his own. Petey taught me about love, taught me about how to be a man. Though barely older than me, he possessed a certain brand of wisdom that sometimes left me with my mouth gaping like a fish out of water.

    Marco, can I tell you something and you promise not to get mad?

    I shrugged in that way that young boys do when they know that all they want to do is rail against whatever is about to come their way.

    Do you remember that time Papa was here, when he took me away from you for a few minutes to have a talk? The one I said you didn’t need to worry about?

    Yes, I answered him rather pointedly. This particular conversation remained a bone of contention between us, that he knew something from our father that I didn’t.

    Well, I’m going to share it with you now.

    I began to extract myself from him but he held me firm.

    No, Marco. You stay put. You need to hear this the right way.

    He stopped for a moment. When he didn’t continue I sort of pulled my head from his neck and looked at him to watch him glance about the room. He turned his head to the headboard behind us and then seemed to decide on something.

    He got up and pulled me up the bed with him so he could sit against the headboard but guided me so my head would lie against his chest. I knew what this was. Pietro and I had our quirks, our own way of doing things. Whenever he was going to tell me something he thought would cause me any amount of pain or strife, he would insist that I listen to his heart. He said that if I did, I would always know that his love for me was strongest, that he’d always be there for me in ways I could never imagine, that I always would come first for him.

    So I knew whatever he’d say would not be easy. I took great care not to wrinkle my shirt too much as we got into his important talk position. Before he began he slowly let out a breath and gently stroked my hair. He knew this would always soothe whatever tension I’d already built up, and it did.

    Well, what Papa said was that things were going to change between you and me; that we were becoming men now and that no matter how much we wanted things to be the same that you would find things that interested you and I would find things that were important to me.

    But we do that now, don’t we?

    Shhh, don’t interrupt. Just listen, okay?

    I sighed heavily, Okay.

    Trusting in his beating heart with every fiber of my body, I could feel him tremble a bit.

    This was not good, not good at all.

    "Papa said that as we grew up that things would be different between us. He said that we would always be closer than other brothers because we were born together. We’d always face life together. Only now it would be different. Not bad, necessarily, just different."

    Does this have something to do with Tonio and me getting along? Because I think he would be the same around you, too, you know. I think you’re just being silly about it all.

    Silence.

    I fucking hated silence. Silence stifled; silence strangled.

    I’d like to strangle silence, that’s what I wanted to do with it.

    When Pietro spoke again, he did so very quietly.

    Tonio is a great guy. I think you both will become good friends. He seems interested in who you are. That’s a good thing, you having friends that interest you. I’ll have my own, too. It’s just how it is going to be.

    I couldn’t help myself. I raised my head to look at him fully, propping myself on a bent arm. What are you going on about? It’s just some guy who has a great music collection. Get serious, Petey.

    He smirked, and a small sliver of my brother, the brother I’d come to count upon shone through. Still he was troubled in some way that he still wouldn’t put a name to it. I wanted all of this silliness to end.

    Okay, great. I’ll have my friends and you’ll have yours. I’ll have interests and you’ll be important. Are we done now? ‘Cause I have to finish getting ready. You’ve got your pants on, at least, while I’m still in my underwear.

    He quickly wiped a tear from his eye but smiled warmly. Something was still off, but I could see he was concentrating on the moment and pushed it aside. My brother came back to me front and center. He kissed me on the right side of my face and again to my brow, then nudged me to the end of the bed.

    As we continued to get ready, we gently ribbed each other about what girl was probably going to ask us to dance and what the hell we would do about it. Though whatever I said, he just smirked but didn’t rise to my baiting him in any way.

    Funny thing, that.

    Pietro wasn’t one to leave a verbal door unattended whenever a joke could be played at someone else’s expense. With me just now, he had a damned full hallway of open opportunities that he had simply walked by.

    It became sort of infuriating, and a little bit cute only in that way my older brother could be to me.

    Eventually, completely dressed for the occasion, we meandered down. I mean it wasn’t like we were expecting a surprise or anything of the kind. We knew what was going on. Despite this, we couldn’t help but feel a little bit like Christmas had arrived early and like the quiet mice we could be, scurried down to look at all the presents. Some of the awkwardness evaporated between us. I couldn’t help but feel thankful for that. I counted on Petey far more than I think even he realized. I needn’t remind him of it, but the desire I had for him to be there for me persisted nonetheless, unspoken between us.

    As we came down the back stairs to the kitchen where the hired help busied themselves readying the food and drinks, Pietro and I scrambled between them to find our grandmother and parents having a pre-party Bellini out on the terrace. With the setting of the sun behind the mountainscape that lined the back of our property, the sky was awash in golden ambers, rosy pinks and vibrant oranges bleeding into the looming night sky.

    Zio Marco flipped on the terrace lights and everyone sighed. In that moment, that brilliant and incandescent moment, we Sforzas returned to the world of the living.

    We kissed Nonna on her cheek, thanking her again for the wonderful party we knew would come. Mother looked cool and collected in a dark blue evening gown that hugged the contours of her curvaceous body that culminated to a ringed collar of white pearls and Swarovski crystals. The dress was what our cousin, Francesca, who knew everything there was to know about fashion, informed Petey and me was a biased cut. It was the most flattering cut of a dress that any woman could wear if she had the curves to pull it off. Our mother did and was nothing if not radiantly stunning. Even I could see why our father married her.

    She sat in a high-backed ornate iron patio chair like the regal queen she projected to the world, while our father dutifully stood at her side. As soon as we had kissed Nonna’s cheek our mother held out a hand and wiggled her fingers at us, her diamond bracelet catching in the patio lights – her way of beckoning us to her, as if this was something we had all agreed upon.

    We’d never settled on this little whimsical dalliance of hers. She just acted as if we’d come to an agreement on it. However, to appease Papa, we went along. Despite the distance and time we spent away from him, Petey and I would do just about anything for him, even if it meant playing our mother’s silly little family games that held only barest of binding to her. Ever try to snuggle a barracuda? Hugging my mother ran a close second.

    That was the thing about her. Trophies to exhibit, that’s what we felt like, and we knew it. Heirs to the Sforza name and dynasty, Pietro and I already knew our place. She’d produced not just one son but a matching pair – the heir and the spare in one clip. And genetically since we only had high-priced fashion-model-looking parents, well, it was hardly a scandal that Pietro and I carried that loathsome beautiful boys moniker around. Pietro and I could’t forget it because nobody would let us.

    I took Mama’s hand, and leaned forward to place a soft kiss on her cheek; I knew better than to smudge her lips with a real kiss, never mind that she hadn’t spent any quality time with Pietro or me since our last birthday almost a year before. No one counted their visit during Nonno’s funeral. We all ceased to exist during those dark days. She hadn’t bothered to stay long in Italy last summer vacation, choosing instead to meet some college girlfriends in Paris for a couple of weeks while Papa stayed with us and the three of us embarked visiting other sites in Italy.

    Just us guys.

    That summer held the most fun Pietro and I had with our father. He truly let go and got into the spirit of things with us. We could simply be, the three of us, happy, silly and full of life. Mother tended to sap that feeling no matter where she went, one of the many reasons Nonna detested her. I once overheard her say to our grandfather when she didn’t think I was around to hear, Che succube! That succubus.

    Like any growing boy, you bet I Googled it. So I knew what it meant. Petey said he already knew. As my hand slipped from the coldness of my mother’s, I couldn’t help but think Nonna had the right of it. The tension between the two of them when Pietro, Papa and I were around became so thick you could feel yourself moving through it.

    The conversations among them seemed cordial enough, but only just. Watching Petey sidle up to Mama I couldn’t help but wince the tiniest bit at how he dealt with it. We didn’t talk about Mama much. It made life easier.

    I couldn’t wait for the guests to start arriving. So as soon as I slipped from my mother’s notice, I kissed Papa on the cheek and ran off to find Tonio and his incredible music set up.

    Eccolo il mio nuovo amico, he said as I came trotting up to his DJ booth – which really occupied no more space than a wide pedestal on an elevated platform with his mixing and lighting boards and his MacBookPro with an external drive of what I supposed was his music library sitting on top.

    Are you going to play those songs I asked you to play? I asked him with what I knew was nothing short of wide-eyed admiration.

    He turned to me and leaned down a bit so his face could meet with mine. In a heavily accented English he gave me something that made my heart soar: For you, I would play the world. It is your night tonight. Well, eh, you and your brother’s. Whatever you ask, that’s what you’ll get, bel ragazzo. Okay?

    His bright blue eyes, because he definitely embodied one of those Nordic looking Northern Italians with the fairer skin and the bright blue eyes like a crystal-clear lake and a head of dishwater blond hair that I could only dream of. His eyes flashed brilliantly, sparkling like water under a bright sky.

    I flushed and had to sort of look away.

    Come here, he beckoned to me and I came around and he pulled me into a tight embrace. The strength of him surprised me and I found it hard to breathe a bit, but I endured it because he smelled and felt so good against me. Then he kissed me lightly on each cheek, bringing a new round of color to them. It was embarrassing really, but I smiled just the same.

    You are so handsome, Marco. Did anyone ever tell you that? You will have the pick of the girls tonight.

    I shrugged. I’d heard this before growing up, Quei due saranno spezzare molti cuori that’s what they’d say about Petey and me. I didn’t want to hear that from Tonio just then. But I think he misunderstood my sudden change in mood.

    Eh, what is this, eh, faccia acida. He made the same sour look I was making.

    Nothing … I tried to change my manner but he wasn’t letting me get away with that so easily.

    Eh, you must be, uh, what is the word … frank! Yes, frank. You must be frank with Tonio. I will always be with you, eh, the same, no?

    I just don’t like to hear that, that’s all.

    Hear what? He went back to his light board and checked a few of them for a bit, his eyes darting to meet mine. I felt flustered. By acting the way I did, it made it seem like I wanted him to tell me that he thought me beautiful or handsome or … well, whatever. For some reason it became important that I hear that from him.

    I shrugged when his eyes found me again. He chuckled softly to himself over the awkward moment I’d created. Where’s Petey when I needed him? I looked back onto the terrace by the large glass paned doors that were opened from the dining room out onto the large terrazzo patio behind my grandparents’ house, searching him out.

    There was no doubt that our family came from money, old money at that, that was wisely put to use during the world wars and into industry in rebuilding a broken Italy after them. There was talk about our family being mafioso, but I didn’t see anything like those absurd Godfather movies coming from our lot. We were just the lovable, if slightly crazy, family I’d always known and loved.

    My eyes scanned the patio – everyone had seemed to retreat into the house, no doubt putting the final touches to the party before the guests that would arrive at any moment and the festivities would begin.

    I came around the other side of the DJ stage and slumped

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