Of volume lineage

“It’s okay, baby,” I whispered. “They’re just here for money.”

“Hurry the fuck up!”

I tugged the second sneaker off her foot and tossed them both into the pile. He went onto the next person, yelling his commands until everyone was shaking and pleading.

“I’m scared,” Marzia whispered.

My heart shattered but I had to remain strong. I wasn’t going to cry, or vomit, or go ballistic. I was going to take a page out of Giova

God, please let me keep her safe.

I ran a comforting hand over her head. “I know, sweetheart. I know. It’s going to be okay. Just be quiet and stay behind me.”

Marzia cuddled closer to me, her little body continuing to shiver.

My eyes tracked the robbers as they grabbed the bank manager, demanding access to their vaults. One robber followed the manager, gun pointed to his back.

They just want money, I told myself. It’s going to be okay. They’ll get their money and then leave.

Sirens began in the distance then were shockingly loud. I couldn’t see out the window but one of the robbers muttered a cuss before whispering to his partner-in-crime. They both sent anxious looks to where the bank manager and their friend had gone.

Not long after, the bank manager and robber came back. A half-filled bag of cash was under his arm.

“That’s barely anything,” one robber hissed. “I was promised fucking millions. There isn’t enough cash in there to pay my fucking rent.”

“Silence,” snapped the one I assumed was the leader. “The fucking cops are here, alright?” He pointed with his gun. “Sammy, Ward, get the rest of the money. Lin, Igo, you’re with me.”

Boring names for bank robbers, I thought to myself.

“What are we going to do, boss?”

Boss scowled. “I’m not leaving without my money. If I’ve got to shoot a few fuckers to get it, I will.”

“Hostages?” Squeaked one of the robbers. He sounded young, obviously the newbie to the group if his pitched question was anything to go by.

A ringtone cut through their conversation. The noise felt like both a relief and death sentence.

Boss picked up the phone. He was quiet as he listened to whatever the other person was saying, then hissed, “Let us leave with the money and no harm comes to any of the hostages.” He slammed the phone down. It started ringing immediately.

The young robber peered out the window. “They got the cops, firemen, ambulances.” He turned back to his friends. “I feel like a celebrity.”

When I got free, he was the one I was punching first, age be damned. They clearly didn’t care about Marzia’s age, and I wouldn’t care about his either when I put a bullet in the back of his head.

The phone kept ringing and Boss picked it up. He listened, then put down the phone. Before I could blink, he grabbed Joe Croce, pressed the barrel to his head and fired. Joe didn’t even get the chance to beg for his life.

Marzia cried out at the noise, but I held her tighter. “Be quiet, baby, shh, shh. I need you to be quiet.”

More whimpers rose from the room.

“Every time I don’t get what I want,” Boss shouted, “someone gets shot! Got it?”

We all nodded.

I pressed my eyes together. All those hours of Sunday Church, of my mother snapping at me to get on my knees and bow my head, entered my mind.

Where is my husband? I pleaded with God, the universe, anyone who would listen. I need my husband.

Giova

I was thinking about her again.

Isabella had often found herself in my thoughts these past few months. I couldn’t pinpoint an exact trigger for my brain to summon up images of her, and questions about what she was doing, where was she, what was she thinking. But it kept happening repeatedly, even if I tried to deny it to myself.

When I awoke before the sun this morning, she had rolled close to me in her sleep. Isabella often sought warmth in the night, and more than once, I had woken up with her leg thrown over mine or her head buried in the crook of my arm. This morning, however, I had felt surprise at her closeness.

She had kicked off the blankets in the hot night, the expanse of her legs and arms on show due to her nightgown riding up. She had tossed an arm over my stomach, twisted her legs with mine and her hair was spread over my chest. To my surprise, my own body had rolled closer to her in the night, my arm thrown over her back.

Surprise.

It was an emotion I felt mostly with Marzia, occurring whenever she said something fu

Surprise was quickly turning into….The word a

Maybe I was coming down with something. Those did sound like symptoms of an illness.

Ill or not, I couldn’t deny the truthful fact: I thought about my wife often. I thought about her naked body crumbling in pleasure beneath my touch, I thought about her laughter echoing from down the hall, I thought about her sharp remarks and sweet words and how she had spent days painting dinosaurs and hung them up in Marzia’s room.

My daughter had been so happy she had been rendered speechless.

However, the memory that overtook my mind during a meeting with my underboss and consigliere, both who were arguing about the FBI, was our argument in the parking lot. Despite what Isabella believed, I did believe her when she said she saw a thief but all that had been forgotten when she had said: …. your dead brother.…

I had a few brothers, and many had died. But there was only one who still haunted me, whose ghost floated on the fringes of my memory. To hear her say she favored him, had made something dark erupt inside of me. It was unreasonable, an irrational reaction–Isabella had no idea about my past or dead brother, yet her voice, which I thought about so often, saying those words had set something off inside of me.

She had been referring to Leo, it turned out, who was very much still alive–and eager to meet Isabella, despite his undercover status.

I couldn’t put a single on why Isabella talking about my dead brother had made me so angry. Many people had mentioned by fallen siblings before, including the Godless Don of Chicago in a private meeting. His grandfather had slaughtered all of my father’s bastards in his territory, and while Alessandro hadn’t offered an apology, he had made it clear that the bastards of his enemies were safe in his city–as long as they behaved themselves.

But Isabella…My Isabella saying that–

My minds stopped in their tracks. She was not my Isabella. Her name was Isabella, and she was my wife, and while I did claim ownership over her, expecting all my enemies and allies to respect that or face the consequences, Isabella was not the sort of woman who would ever be truly mine.

A harsh knock on the door allowed me reprieve from the arguing and my tu

“Come in.”

My driver, Giacomo, stuck his head in. His skin was the color of concrete.

“What’s happened, Giacomo.”

“Sir, our bank downtown has been overrun and they’re holding hostages.”