Sweetest Sorrow

  It was like waking up in a new world, a different world, a world Dante didn't fucking like.

  This world was stifling.

  "I see you've been sprung."

  The familiar female voice ghosted across Dante's warm skin, so close he damn near shivered. Nurse Russo stood just a few feet beside him, clad in her blue scrubs.

  "More like I escaped."

  "With the doctor's blessing?"

  Dante shrugged. "Figured he was tired of looking at me."

  Laughing, Nurse Russo took a step forward, motioning to the metal bench. "Mind if I join you?"

  Dante slid over, giving her some room. "By all means, plop your ass on down."

  She sat down, not leaving much space between them. A hint of her perfume wafted toward him, subtle but sweet, barely strong enough to be detected yet it was enough to make his head swim. Vanilla. He'd been lightheaded since he signed the release forms, leaving against medical advice. They wanted to keep him a few more days, out of precaution, but he'd denied that request.

  But as he sat there, he wasn't sure why he'd insisted on leaving. It wasn't as if he had anywhere to go.

  "I'm Gabriella, by the way." She held her hand out to him. "Friends call me Gabby."

  Dante hardly touched her hand before pulling away. "Dante, but you already knew that."

  "I did," she said, "but it's nice to hear you say it, seeing as how you were refusing to say much at all."

  "Yeah, well, you never know who you can trust," he said. "Besides, they didn't care about anything I had to say, so there was no point in saying it. They wanted to hear what they wanted to hear, and I'm not really in the business of placating assholes."

  "I get it," she said. "It's kind of sad, though."

  "What?"

  "You feeling like you can't trust anyone."

  "I wouldn't call it sad," he said. "That's how life is."

  "Sounds lonely."

  Lonely, yeah… that he would admit. The life he chose was a lonely existence. People always surrounded him, but very few were ever actually there. Forced smiles, frozen faces, the warmest greetings known to man. All of it, every second, every moment, was calculated, fabricated, little more than premeditated motions. People rarely smiled at him to be friendly. No, they smiled to hide their fear. They smiled to get on his good side, to gain some leverage, to feel like they had the upper hand. Nobody wanted to be on his bad side, so they smiled, grinning from ear-to-fucking-ear, dreading what would happen if they didn't.

  Dante hadn't intended to become this person. Hell, he still wasn't sure it was even him. He was little more than a caricature, a face attached to a name. That was what it meant to be a Galante. People came with a predetermined set of beliefs about what kind of man he would be, and he spent his life struggling to live up to that. The loyal soldier, following his father's orders, fighting a war that had almost cost him his life. He hadn't enlisted… he'd been drafted at birth.

  He never complained before. Complaining was pointless. He did it because it was his duty. He did it because it was his birthright. And he'd always believed what he was doing was for the best, but now? Now he wasn't so sure.

  Because being that soldier had cost him a lot, more than he'd been willing to pay.

  He wanted a fucking refund.

  "It's not so bad," he said. "As long as I can count on myself, I don't really need anyone else."

  "Well, that's something, I guess," she said. "So… how are you feeling?"

  He cut his eyes her direction at that question. How are you feeling? She stared at him eagerly as she awaited his answer, like she truly wanted to know.

  "Dead," he admitted. "I feel dead."

  "That's normal," she said, before amending, "well, maybe not normal, but it's understandable. You almost did die. You're lucky to be alive."

  "So shouldn't I be rejoicing?" he asked. "Shouldn't I be celebrating getting another chance?"

  "Probably," she said, "but I guess it depends."

  "On what?"

  "On whether or not you value your life."

  He was quiet, stewing over those words, as he picked at his fingernails. "I'm not suicidal. You don't have to sit here and talk me off of a ledge."

  "I don't think you're suicidal," she said, "but suicidal people aren't the only ones who jump."

  He shook his head. "You don't know me."

  "But I know people like you," she said. "People who value pride and loyalty. People who keep fighting because it's what they think they're supposed to do. People who refuse to let go out of stubbornness. People who jump, believing they'll land on their feet."

  Dante clenched his hands into fists. "Like I said, Nurse Russo, you don't know me."

  "It's Gabby," she said, her voice calm despite the hint of anger in his tone that should've warned her away. "And I don't have to know you, Dante. Not really. But I had a brother once. I had a brother who was strong, and stubborn, and the furthest thing from suicidal. But he was also someone who valued his pride more than his life. I had a brother who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge. He didn't do it because he wanted to die. No, he did it thinking, somehow, he'd live. Someone told him he wouldn't, and so he did." She stood, placing a hand on Dante's shoulder, squeezing. "I hope everything works out for you. If you ever need someone to talk to, you know… if you ever decide you want to trust someone again… I'd be more than happy to listen. Just try not to jump, you know, unless you're certain the consequences are worth it."

  Dante watched her as she walked away. His stomach twisted in knots. She'd gotten under his skin. He didn't like it. They'd only had a handful of conversations and yet she had him nailed down like he'd been an open book.

  The worst part was that she wasn't wrong. His pride was all he had left at that point.

  Standing up, he straightened the set of paper-thin borrowed scrubs he wore, ones the hospital had provided before showing him the door. His clothes had been cut off of him on arrival, had been taken as evidence by the police, along with any belongings that had been in his pockets… if the Barsantis had left him with anything. He didn't know. He hadn't asked. Until then, he hadn't even cared. But suddenly, he was itching to get his hands on his wallet.

  Without it, he couldn't even afford subway fare.

  No money. No phone. Not even a friend.

  "Nurse Russo?" he called out, catching her before she entered the hospital.

  She paused. "Please, call me Gabby."

  He nodded, acknowledging that. His stomach churned. He could see her hope, that wide-eyed innocence, like she thought she'd gotten through to him.

  He hated to have to squash it.

  "I was just wondering if you had a few bucks you could lend me," he said, hating every syllable that came from his lips. He loathed himself for asking. He felt small. Emasculated. "I wouldn't ask... fuck, I know I shouldn't ask... but I've got nothing on me, and it's hard to get around this city when you've got nothing, you know?"

  He wanted to dig a hole in the ground and crawl right in it, throw some dirt on him and call it a fucking night.

  "Oh, uh, yeah..." She opened her purse and dug around inside of it, whipping out a yellow card. "Actually, I've got a MetroCard, if that'll help?"

  He hesitated, not because it wouldn’t help—it would—but because his pride was strong. So, so fucking strong. Asking for help was hard enough. Accepting it, taking it, almost proved to be too much. She seemed to get that, because she rolled her eyes, stepping toward him and forcing the card in his hand.

  “Go home,” she said, her small hand on top of his, squeezing, forcing him to grip the card. “Or go to a friend’s. Go somewhere, anywhere, but don’t just hang around here."

  “Tired of looking at me?” he asked.

  She shook her head, letting go. “I just think maybe other people might be missing you, instead."

  She headed into the hospital then, disappearing through the front entrance. Glancing down at the MetroCard, he set off toward the subway. She was wrong. They didn’t m
iss him. They missed who they thought he was.

  They missed who they expected to come back.

  An hour and a few connections later, Dante ended up standing on the lawn in front of the house he grew up in, north of the city, in Westchester County. Sweat pooled along his brow, beads of it running down the side of his face. He felt woozy, more exhausted than he’d ever been before. His legs weren’t what they used to be. His knees shook, wanting to give out on him as he stood there, taking it all in.

  The house looked like home. It looked like his home. But it didn’t quite feel like home anymore.

  Right out front, prominently parked, were two familiar cars: his black Mercedes, and behind it, Genna’s BMW. That twinge of hope flared deep in his bones but he pushed it back, knowing if he gave in to the sensation, it would only hurt worse. If anything, her car was confirmation of the truth. Like his mother’s belongings tucked away in the attic, their cars would’ve sat there forever, rusting away, collecting dust, tangible keepsakes their father clung to like maybe, if he kept it around, he could say he had a piece of them left.

  Carefully, Dante approached the house, reaching for the doorknob, surprised to find it unlocked. It turned smoothly, his grip slipping a bit because of his sweaty palms. He pushed it open, stepping in the doorway, just as someone walked by. The familiar form skidded to a stop in the foyer, swinging around, on defense, a hand going straight for a waistband where Dante knew they kept their gun. It didn’t faze him, though, not in the least—not even when they drew their weapon and aimed it at his head.

  “You shoot me, Bert, and I won’t be the only one who winds up dead,” Dante said, stepping into the foyer and closing the front door.

  Before him stood Umberto Ricci, arguably one of Dante's closest friends, although he doubted how far that sentiment went now. Weeks in the hospital and Umberto hadn’t stopped by at all.

  Not a peep from the guy.

  Umberto lowered his gun, pointing it at the floor near his feet. “Dante?"

  “Last I checked." Dante eyed him peculiarly. “You did know I was alive, right?"

  “Yeah, uh… I mean… of course, yeah.” Umberto nodded, seeming to shake off the surprise as he tucked his gun away. “I knew you were alive, that you’d survived, but knowing is one thing… seeing you is completely different. Just… wow. You’re here. You’re… alive."

  “Again, last I checked. What are you doing here?"

  “I’ve just been helping your father out, keeping him company and all that."

  “Is he home?"

  “Your father?"

  Dante nodded.

  Who the hell else would he be talking about?

  “Oh, yeah… he’s in his office.” Umberto motioned toward the office, like Dante wouldn’t remember where it was located. “He’s asleep, though… was up all night. Hell, he's up most nights. Didn't expect you home for a few more days. I can wake him…"

  “Don’t bother,” Dante said, shrugging it off as he set his sights on the stairs. “I could use some sleep myself."

  “Of course,” Umberto mumbled. “You, uh… sure."

  Dante shot him a peculiar look. Nervous, he realized. Umberto was nervous. Genna used to call the guy a bumbling idiot, and he was certainly acting like one now.

  Dante didn’t have it in him to deal with that, though. Shaking his head, he walked up the stairs, leaving his old friend alone in the foyer. He went straight to his old bedroom, looking around when he opened the door. It was spotless, nothing out of place, all of his belongings right where he’d left them, like it had all just been sitting there, awaiting his inevitable return.

  Curiosity nagged at Dante as his gaze drifted across the hall to his sister's bedroom door. Quietly, he stepped over, gripping the knob, hesitating before opening it.

  A disaster greeted him.

  Clothes were strewn everywhere. It was nothing new where Genna was concerned. The girl lived in chaos, while Dante always preferred order. Something in the room drew his attention, though, and he stepped further inside, careful not to trample on any of her things. Across the room, near her closet, on the floor, was a black duffle bag. A few pieces of clothing had been tossed in it, but otherwise, the thing was empty.

  They were going to run, Gavin had said.

  Guess they weren't fast enough.

  After looking around, Dante headed back across the hall. He hadn't lied about needing some sleep. As exhausted as he felt, he could've slept for days, but he'd been out of commission already for too long. Anarchy had reigned in his absence. As much as he wished everything could go back to normal, it was impossible, because normal was gone.

  So as he stood there, stripping out of the scrubs, he thought about where to go from there.

  He considered his options. All of them sucked.

  Stepping into his connecting bathroom, he turned on the shower, leaving the water scorching hot. What would Genna do? What had she done?

  She'd rebelled.

  It was in her nature. If you told her she had to go left, she'd deliberately veer right. Unlike Dante, the obedient soldier, Genna forged her own path. She was free-spirited like their mother. Dante always admired that about her. He'd been raised to be unyielding like his father. He saw only black and white. But Genna saw the gray area. She'd lived in it.

  The gray area. That was what Nurse Russo had called him. She saw in shades of gray, too.

  Maybe I ought to be more like that.

  "Oh God, yes," Genna moaned, tossing her head back and closing her eyes. Sweat coated her flushed face. Goose bumps sprung up along her skin. "Holy fuck, that feels so good. Don't stop. Never stop. More. More. More."

  Laughter rung out from across the room. "Should I be jealous?"

  Genna peeked an eye open. Matty stood in the doorway to the kitchen, filthy from head-to-toe. Sweat soaked him, his dirty clothes clinging to his bronzed skin. He'd spent so much time working under the sun that parts of him, like his shoulders and his cheeks, were pink with sunburn. Ugh, that's gotta suck.

  "Probably," Genna replied, closing her eyes again. "I'd definitely be jealous, you know, if it weren't happening to me."

  Footsteps started in her direction, careful and measured. A soft smile touched Genna's lips as he approached. Cool air blew down on her from the vent in the kitchen ceiling. It wasn't cold, no, but compared to the desert heat, it felt glorious. She could stand there forever, in that exact spot, and die a happy woman. For over two weeks, Genna had felt like she'd been baking in that house.

  "I can't remember the last time you looked so… satisfied," Matty said. "Starting to make me question my skills in bed."

  Genna's smile grew. "You're alright."

  "Just alright?"

  "Well, I mean, I wouldn't say it's anything to write home about."

  More laughter. Genna opened her eyes, gazing at Matty. He stood just a few feet in front of her, close enough to reach out and touch him if she wanted to.

  "What a shame. I would've liked to see you write home to tell your father about all the spectacular sex we've been having."

  "Right?" Genna sighed dramatically. "What a shame. Instead, I'll have to tell him about the ancient air conditioner and how it's blowing my goddamn mind by, you know, blowing."

  Matty grasped her hips, stepping even closer. "I'm definitely getting jealous now."

  "I told you—you should be." Genna wrapped her arms around his neck, gazing at him, as her fingers ran through the hair at the nape of his neck. His hair was getting longer. He needed to get it cut. Hell, he needed to shave. He could use some better deodorant, too, because whatever he'd been using hadn't been working. The man was a mess... a filthy, smelly, desperately-needed-a-shower kind of mess. But he was her mess. "You know, it's totally true what they say: you don't know what you've got until that shit is taken away."

  He grinned. "Is that what they say?"

  "Yep. You don't appreciate it until you don't have it anymore… like air conditioning. And Wi-Fi. Even a computer. Hell,
any kind of technological device, for that matter. This place doesn't even have an electric can opener. They have one of those that you gotta crank with your own hand."

  Matty gasped in mock horror. "What monsters."

  She rolled her eyes. "I'm serious. It's so disconnected from reality… from my reality. I miss movies. And music. And Netflix."

  "Porn," Matty chimed in.

  "Even porn," Genna agreed. "Maybe that's what you need to spice up that mediocre sex you've been dishing out."

  He nudged her. "I don't know. I don't think a lowly commoner like me is fit to please royalty. Might take more than porn to get me up to par."

  "More like what?"

  "Like practice," he said. "Practice makes perfect... that's another thing they say."

  He leaned in for a kiss, but Genna's hand shot up, coming between them to cover her mouth. She stepped back, his hands falling from her hips. "No offense, but you kind of reek."

  "I reek?"

  "Yeah, you smell like... ugh, I don't know how to describe it. You smell like a man, but times ten. You need to take a shower. Like, STAT. Before the neighbors think something died out here."

  "There are no neighbors."

  "Then the buzzards. Or vultures. Or whatever those freaky ass birds are that look like Grim Reapers with faces like Red Skull."

  His eyes widened. "Is that a comic book reference?"

  "It's a movie reference. They make them into movies, you know. I watched it. The red dude was ugly. He was freaky looking, like the birds. But quit changing the subject."

  "The subject being that I smell like a corpse."

  "Pretty much."

  After she dropped her hands, Matty carefully leaned in, leaving a small peck of a kiss on her lips, one she didn't attempt to ward off. "Enjoy your air conditioning, Princess. I'm going to go hose off."

  He headed upstairs, leaving her in the kitchen alone. It lasted a minute or so before the silence grew too much, the novelty of the cool air wearing off. She trekked after him, hearing the shower running in the bathroom, and considered barging in but thought better of it. Shower sex, while hot in theory, was one thing that should only happen in porn. Something about being drenched and sliding around on slippery porcelain while trying to get some kind of rhythm going without drowning spelled disaster for Genna.