Bobby stared at the coffin before him, a mixture of grief and rage swirling in his eyes, in his body. Within weeks of each other…
Angel, Sophie, Jerry and Camille had left, at his urging, left him to stand over the grave in the snow, to stare at the casket. Too young, way too young.
He could still hear him, damn it, hear him screaming. Screaming for him as he was being shot, just "Bobby! Bobby!" dragging his name out in the midst of the shots, fear and pain and tears evident in his voice, and Bobby couldn't help him at all.
All he could do was hold the young man as he choked on his own blood in the cold snow, choking and crying and calling for his older brother, calling for Bobby, face contorted in pain.
He didn't want to think about it, didn't want to think about it. Not at all. But he would, to get vengeance. For Ma, for Jackie.
He knelt beside his little brother's casket, crossed himself. "For you, Cracker Jack, Jackie, you little mother fucking Fairy," he murmured, leaning forward to press a kiss to the freezing cold wood. He stood once more, brushed himself off. One more glance at the casket, turned on his heel and stalked through the graves, to the sides of his remaining brothers.
"Bobby!"
