In the months that followed my return to New York, I found myself consumed by my art. I had forgotten how much I needed to express myself, to create something, to defy all expectations of cowering silence and leave my mark on the world instead. It was my own way, my safest way, of screaming in the face of custom. I was tempted, like always, to pry into my brother's handling of the family business, which I craved beyond belief. By the time I was 14, I had eavesdropping on my brother's meetings down to a science, and as a result, learned the location of every creaky floorboard on the third landing. Despite my expertise in this, I stayed away from those long, creaky hallways. My interaction with Stefano at my welcome home party was enough to scare me away from those rooms for a long time.
Besides, I didn't need to eavesdrop as much anymore-due to Raffael's age and maturity, Stefano started letting him in on the details of the family business and every so often, Raffael would update me on all he heard. Raffael never had any interest in being a don, but then again, none of my brothers really did. I was always the most eager to hold the position, even as a child. In the two years before his demise, my father let his oldest in on the meetings to listen and learn, but never gave a teenage Stefano any authority. Stefano was flighty then, unreliable, impulsive, and prone to anger. My oldest brother wasn't my father's first choice among his sons to take over the business, assuming that Bernardo or Giuseppe would grow into the role. At 18 years old, Stefano had other prospects: a New York University acceptance, a pregnant girlfriend to take care of, and a childhood dream of enlisting in the military. If you asked any of my other three brothers what happened to all of Stefano's plans, they'd tell you a noble story of their oldest brother sacrificing his happiness for the sake of the family legacy. If you asked Stefano, however, he'd give you a very different answer.
After being away for so long, it was great fun to live with my brothers again, especially since I didn't have to risk my life and safety to hear about Stefano's business dealings. In our spacious family estate, the entire third floor (strictly forbidden for me) was dedicated to the family business, so my brothers and I spent our nights lounging in the parlor, listening to Giuseppe's records and eating whatever concoction Raffael last cooked up. Stefano's wife, Theresa, even spent time with us and brought over their kids, seven-year-old Beatrice, five-year-old Vincent, and three-year-old Silvano. Theresa lived in her and Stefano's private apartment with their kids not too far from our house, which was a safety measure as well as a personal choice. Stefano wanted his kids to grow up somewhere safe from his business and isolated from the weight of family obligations.
But Theresa often got stir crazy in the apartment, so she liked to kick her feet up at our house. Before I left for Rome, I never spent time with her when Stefano wasn't around, and to my surprise, she was quite fun. I never realized how restrained and composed she was around her husband; it hurt to think that she too had to adapt to the ebb and flow of Stefano's temper.
When summer rolled around again, I had over a hundred new paintings and nowhere to put them. My room steadily evolved into a place of well-meaning, artistic chaos; my desk was scattered with unfinished drawings and graphite pencils, my floor littered with stacks of paintings yet to be organized. My drawers overflowed with art supplies and my sketchbooks and drawing pads were exploding with watercolor landscapes, loose sketches of ideas for paintings, and my thick, fervent scribbling over drawings full of mistakes and uncertain strokes. Early in spring, Don Corleone paid a visit to Stefano and came by my room, stunned at the level of disaster it was approaching. After getting over the initial shock, he became overcome with joy at the fact that sloth and carelessness were not the culprits of my disaster cave, but instead, inspiration and drive. Struck by this, he told me, he then endeavored to purchase a coveted space in lower Manhattan, which he gifted to me as my very own art gallery and studio for my 21st birthday.
It was the gift of a lifetime. Finally, I had a place to display my art, conduct my own business, and a studio to create in. Raffael, Bernardo, and Giuseppe helped me move everything there, and by the time I got settled, I jumped right into the work. Galleria Vitale was more than a haven from Stefano's stormy temper-it became my livelihood.
Still, I couldn't escape the hurricane that was to come. Perhaps I should have seen it coming, but at the time, I knew I didn't care about the consequences. It was the end of the summer, just after Raffael's 24th birthday. He and I were gathered in my room, the air thick with evening heat. There was a record playing downstairs-not an aria, but a symphony.
Raffael was describing to me one of Stefano's current stressors, some recent disagreement between the don and the Vitale consigliere, Augustu. The door busted open like an explosion and as soon as I heard the sound, fear and the realization that my espionage with Raffael was over struck my heart violently. In a flash, Stefano's face was scarlet with rage, and his huge, dark frame, backlit from the hallway light, charged towards Raffael.
"Tradiore!" Stefano roared, seizing Raffael's shirt to pull him up and slamming him like a ragdoll against the wall of my bedroom. "Sharing family secrets with the stronza?!"
Before Raffael could answer, Stefano hurled his fist toward his younger brother's face and a river of blood poured down from his nose. I watched in stunned horror as he gasped in pain, crying out, slamming his fists against Stefano's chest.
"STOP!" I cried instinctively, and without thinking, I ran toward my fighting brothers. Before I could even make contact with them, a searing pain consumed my face, the impact of my brother's hand knocking me to the floor. I hit the wood hard, feeling myself bruise, tears pooling in my eyes from the pain of the slap.
"It's not her fault," I heard Raffael cry. "It's not her fault!"
"Stai zitto!" Stefano roared, and suddenly I was yanked up from the floor by an iron grip on my arm. I gasped for breath and tried to keep up with Stefano's fast pace, moving my fumbling feet as quickly as I could. My cheek continued to sting as my body went into full panic mode: my hands shook violently, my breaths uneven and sharp, my blurry vision a chaotic montage of that third-floor hallway. My feet, still fumbling, betrayed every instinct in my body that told me to run as fast as I could in the other direction. Stefano's grip tightened, hearing me whimpering and hyperventilating. My limp body bumped against Stefano's capos in the narrow hallway, and the one guarding his office nearly knocked me all the way down. As soon as we were in his office, Stefano threw me roughly in the armchair across from his desk and slammed the door loudly behind him.
I heard him moving around and the loud scratching of wood against itself as he angrily slammed his drawers closed, something in his hand. I wondered if I had finally broken him, finally pushed him to the very edge, to the point where my own brother would point his gun at me and shoot.
I realized that whatever he was holding was too small to be a gun, and between his fingers, I made out the logo for a cigarette pack. Still shaking with anger, Stefano stuck a cigarette between his lips and scratched a match under the desk to light it, taking a long drag as he glared hatefully at me.
"What do I have to do," he growled with rage, leaning over me intimidatingly, "for you to stay out of the way?"
"Kill me," I answered, my voice quivering. No matter what I said, I knew I was going to end up bleeding on the floor, so why not be truthful about it?
To my surprise, Stefano chuckled darkly. He took a moment to observe the cigarette smoking between his fingers and turned back to me with that same hateful glare and a deep frown.
"What do you do with the information Raffael gives you?" he demanded to know, taking a long drag from his cigarette. "I can eavesdrop too, piccola."
"Nothing," I cried, my voice weak. My tears were stinging the cut on my face.
At my words, Stefano's eyes darkened slightly. With striking speed, he held down my right wrist with that iron grip and with his right hand, dug the bone of his wrist into my left palm and shoved his burning cigarette into my skin. White-hot agony shot through my arm like pain I had never known before, and I couldn't help screaming as loud as my hoarse voice would let me. Every second was blinding torture, my wrist exploding with pain from the burn, my brother holding down my hands with epic force. When he released the smushed cigarette I started to wail, unable to hold back my tears.
"Every time you lie to me," Stefano promised coldly, "you get burned."
I gasped for air, desperate to pull myself together, to stop the flow of tears so I could think clearly. My efforts were worthless; fear and pain overwhelmed me. The smell of my burning flesh was unbearable.
"What do you do with the information?" Stefano asked again, striking another match and lighting a new cigarette. I couldn't help but continue to cry, knowing I was unable to provide a response that wouldn't result in a new scar. No matter what I say, no matter what I say...
"Please don't," I begged him, my voice barely audible.
The force of his hands pressing mine down again made me gasp, and the newly lit cigarette was rammed into my wrist. I screamed for what felt like an eternity, louder every second the searing pain continued, praying that my brothers could hear me. It was so much worse the second time; Stefano held me down so tightly that any movement from me at all only intensified the pain, but my body couldn't resist the urge to fight.
"HELP!" I shrieked with every ounce of my remaining energy, kicking the desk in front of me as hard as I could. Stefano lifted the cigarette and as I wailed, sobbing uncontrollably, I heard his cold laugh over my own tired voice.
"No one is coming for you, piccola," he told me cruelly as I panted, sweat glistening my face. I bent forward in the armchair, not daring to move my left arm or to look at the damage he had done to it. My hair hung around my face, sticking to my forehead. The door is guarded, I remembered. The whole hallway is guarded. No one was coming for me, even if they wanted to.
"Let's try again," Stefano said curtly. "New question." I heard the scraping and lighting of a new match and the sound made me jump, causing new ripples of pain throughout my arm. I struggled to open my eyes, my body exhausted.
"Do you sell the information?"
A wave of relief washed through me. I could tell he was trying a new approach.
"No," I whimpered. I wished I had the strength to find more words. I could smell the cigarette smoke of a newly lit stick.
"So why acquire it?!" he asked me sharply, still fuming. "Why use your own brother?"
"Curiosity," I breathed, unable to say any more. I prayed he would accept my answer, and I heard his frustrated sigh.
"Now Luisa," he growled, his voice much closer, "the lying."
With seemingly extra power, I was pinned to the chair for a third time, another burn ripping open my skin. I threw my head back and screamed, using every last bit of my energy, hot tears dropping off my chin. I cried for him to stop, and when he wouldn't, fury started to pound through me.
"If you're going to kill me, just DO IT!" I wailed, kicking, before I felt the force pinning me down lift. "Just do it! Just do it, you fucking coward! Be a man and DO IT!"
He said nothing. The pain was still too blinding for me to see.
"I know you want to," I sobbed wildly, panting. "I know you want to."
I managed to open my eyes and look up at him. He was staring down at me with an unreadable expression.
"Stop talking," he ordered, his voice low. My wave of fury had evaporated, replaced with utter and complete exhaustion. I obeyed him without a choice.
Outside the door, someone's shouting voice and angry footsteps climbed the stairs and powered through the hallway. The furious sounds got louder and louder until they were outside the office and I finally recognized them. Sonny.
He was arguing furiously with the capo outside, who was clearly not budging. Almost immediately, I heard a series of clunks, someone hitting the ground. The door flung open, and I moved my head very carefully to see him. Sonny rushed over to me, his eyes wide and focused on my arm. Momentarily, he paused to gaze at the horror of it. I still couldn't look.
"Peppi, call the doctor," he said, his voice shaking. I heard someone run down the hallway and descend the stairs. Sonny turned to me, his eyes still stunned.
"You're okay now," he told me softly, and I nodded, a warm tear sliding out of the corner of my eye. Behind Sonny, Raffael and Bernardo hurried over to me, their eyes wide with shock. Bernardo reached behind me and supported my back, lifting my body into his arms. Raffael, gulping, carefully supported my left arm, jumping at my gasps and whimpers of pain whenever he moved it. Blood still coated his nose and mouth.
"Stefo, I'm gonna fucking kill you this time!" I heard Sonny shout, before the sound of shuffling and angry shoving.
"Get out!" Stefano ordered sharply, gripping his fists. "GET OUT!"
Bernardo and Raffael hurried me out of the room, clearly scared of Stefano. Sonny continued to fight him, and by the time we made it to the hallway stepping over the unconscious capo, I heard the door slam closed with Sonny on our side of it, pounding on the door.
"Non ho finito con te, bastardo!" Sonny roared, fuming. My brothers carried me carefully down the stairs, turning into my bedroom and placing me on the bed. On the wall next to the door, I noticed a foot-wide dent in the plaster of my wall where Stefano had thrown Raffael.
"I'm so sorry, Luisa," Raffael told me, his voice quivering. I moved my head slowly to look at him, his eyes filled to the brim with tears. My heart ached for him; I couldn't bear for him to blame himself.
"It's not your fault," I said under my breath, hoping he heard me. He held my right hand with both of his, kissing the back of it, his tears falling. The little droplets smeared on my hand.
"I'm so sorry," he sobbed, pressing the back of my hand to his forehead, leaning forward to cry. "I'm so sorry... I'm so sorry..."
Bernardo, who I didn't know had left, came back in with a glass of brandy. Raffael released my hand, stepping away while Bernardo leaned down to help me drink the brandy.
"It'll help with the pain," he told me, and I nodded carefully. "The memory, too." I sipped the strong liquor, the fiery substance hurting my sore throat. Still, I relaxed a slight bit.
Right next to me, the same scratching and lighting of a match that I heard with Stefano ripped through the air, sending an electric current of terror through my body. My muscles clenched in preparation for the pain of the coming burn, and I felt myself starting to hyperventilate again, whimpering with fear.
"Please don't, please don't, please don't," I cried, more tears sliding down my cheeks, my arms quivering. Ripples of pain shot through my left arm in anticipation of the new burn.
"Luisa, it's just weed!" Bernardo's voice insisted, repeating himself.
"You're safe now," Raffael told me, and I dared to open my eyes, expecting to see Stefano standing over me again. Instead, my sweet brothers, their eyes full of fear and concern, touched my right arm gently to assure me I was okay. Bernardo held a smoking, thickly packed joint.
I tried to relax, realizing my mistake. I laid back down uneasily, repeating Raffael's words in my head. You're safe now. You're safe now.
Bernardo carefully placed the joint in between the fingers of my right hand, and I shakily took a hit. Like the alcohol, the heat of it burned my throat, but my body responded to it instantly. I smoked the entirety of it as quickly as I could, praying it would help me sleep. Giuseppe came in, hurrying over to me to see what happened. I watched his precious young features contort with horror, anger, shock, realization. I felt so overwhelmingly sad for him; his childhood was completely ruined. 17 years old, having to call a doctor for his burned and bruised sister, with absolutely no justice. He must have heard me screaming.
"The doctor's here," he made out, and Bernardo nodded, stepping away and out of the room. Giuseppe didn't say anything more, looking away from my left arm and into my eyes. He sat beside me, holding my hand, as we waited for the doctor together. Sweetly, my youngest brother kissed the back of my hand, and I found the courage to look at my left arm. Three circular wounds the width of cigarettes dotted the flat skin on my left wrist. Surrounded with irritated, once-olive skin, the wounds were black with dried blood, little blisters already erupting around the burns. I stared at each one, remembering each moment of searing pain, one right after the other.
The doctor, one of our family's that was always at beck and call, knew the drill.
"Hello, Luisa," he said quietly, starting to take a look at my arm. I nodded back in response. I focused on Giuseppe beside me, who offered a reassuring smile.
"I'll give you some morphine for the night," the doctor told me, and I was automatically relieved. As soon as he injected it, I felt instantly better and was able to handle the pain of him disinfecting the burns. In addition to the burns, he also treated the cut on my cheek, bandaging the long wound. I heard Sonny's voice in the hallway, and Giuseppe released my hand to step out and update my brothers, shutting the door quietly behind him. After the doctor finished, I struggled to keep my eyes open, the drugs and alcohol starting to distort my thinking. Sonny's voice came closer, and his thick hands enveloped my right hand, kissing it gently.
"You ok, fragolina?" he asked me softly, brushing hair out of my face. My eyes pooled with tears; not from the pain of my arm, but from hearing his quiet, broken voice call me fragolina.
"I wish you were my brother," I mumbled sleepily, letting my eyes close. I heard him laugh softly, before leaning down to kiss my forehead.
"You'd have brothers coming out of your ears," he told me, and as my high brain imagined it, I found myself smiling at the image.
"She smiles," he said happily, and I could tell he felt proud of himself for making it happen.
"Will you stay?" I whispered, unable to be more specific than that.
"Yes, fragolina," he told me, rubbing my hand softly. I let my eyes close, leaning my head back into my pillow. I prayed for dreamless sleep and dropped into it.