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G I O V A N N I
The damp scent of fresh earth and cigarette smoke fills the air as I look down at the mound of dirt. Hands in my coat pockets, I stare at Pietro's polished tombstone, his name gleaming—a harsh reminder of the one man who never questioned my orders. Except that night.
"Testardo stronzo." I mutter bitterly. (Stubborn asshole)
I clench my jaw, taking a drag that sears my lungs. I told him—no, I fucking ordered him to get the hell out and save his ass. But the stubborn, loyal son of a bitch didn't listen.
Had to turn back, had to throw himself in front of me and take the bullets meant for my chest. His loyalty got him killed, and now I'm left here like a fucking idiot, still alive because he couldn't follow one simple fucking order.
I exhale a plume of smoke, my eyes tracing the letters of his name. I can almost hear his laugh—loud, rough and reckless, just like he was. Damn him for it. I never asked for his sacrifice. Never wanted his blood on my hands.
"You didn't have to play the hero, you dumb motherfucker," I grumble, gritting my teeth. "I told you to get the fuck out."
I flick the cigarette to the ground and crush it under my heel. Reaching into my coat, I pull out a bottle of Scotch—Pietro's favorite, the one he always pestered me to bring to our poker games, the one he called "liquid gold." I kneel and place the bottle by the stone.
"This one's for you, old friend," I mumble. "Try not to drain it all in one go."
I stand up and look at the grave one last time. Footsteps approach behind me and Nicolo stops beside me, hands in his coat pockets. We stand in silent. Nicolo knows what Pietro means to me. He's been by my side as long as Pietro has. After a moment, he clears his throat.
"It's time, Giovanni. We should go," he hesitates, glancing at me sideways. "I'll call Camila, have her come by tonight. Keep you company."
"Not tonight," I mutter, voice rough. "I'm not in the mood for that."
Nicolo gives a silent nod, his hand clamping down on my shoulder briefly.
"I'll wait in the car."
He walks away, and I stay a few minutes longer, letting the loss sink in. When I finally turn to leave, I notice a petite girl a few rows over, sitting on the damp ground.
Her head is bowed, and her shoulders shake with quiet sobs. She looks fragile, breakable, delicate. Her yellow sweater and golden curls stand out in the gloomy place. She feels out of place, like a light in the darkness.
My eyes linger on her, watching how her hands clutch each other tightly as she cries. I snap out of my thoughts and turn away. Whatever this girl's story is, it's none of my concern.
