Chapter 7 - The Shadow of the Don
Rain lashed down in sheets, soaking Vincent’s white shirt and Michael’s charcoal coat as the two brothers rolled through the thick mud near the cliff edge. Two hundred feet below, the black, ice-cold waters of the quarry lake surged against the sharp jagged rocks.
Michael sat atop Vincent, his scarred hands wrapped tightly around Vincent’s throat, his milky eye wild with rage. "You stole my life! You stole my daughter! You took everything!"
Vincent choked for air, his hands gripping Michael’s wrists. "I... didn't know, Michael! I was twenty-seven... I was just following... Father's orders!"
"Father was a coward!" Michael spat, his grip tightening. "And so are you!"
From the ruined doorway of the cabin, Luca ran out into the pouring rain, holding his uncle's discarded silver pistol in both hands. "Get off him!" the nine-year-old boy screamed, his arms shaking wildly as he aimed the weapon at Michael.
Michael paused, turning his head slowly toward his nephew. A strange, twisted look of recognition flickered across his scarred face. He saw the same fierce, protective defiance in young Luca that he himself had possessed thirty years ago.
"Luca... put the gun down," Vincent managed to gasp out, using Michael’s moment of hesitation to drive his elbow sharply into Michael’s ribs.
Michael gasped, loosening his grip. Vincent rolled over, sweeping Michael’s legs out from under him. Michael fell backward toward the slippery edge of the mud slide.
Vincent stood up, reaching his hand out toward his brother. "Michael! Take my hand! The ground is giving way!"
The rain-soaked mud beneath Michael’s back began to crumble, sliding rapidly toward the precipice.
Michael looked down at the dark abyss below, then looked up at Vincent’s extended hand, and finally at little Clara, who was standing beside Marcus at the edge of the ruined porch, clutching her wet stuffed rabbit.
"Tell her..." Michael rasped, his voice softening for a fraction of a second as his fingers brushed against Vincent’s palm. "...tell her her father was a Caruso."
The mud embankment gave way completely.
"Michael!" Vincent screamed, diving forward.
Vincent’s fingers caught the edge of Michael’s charcoal coat cuff, but the wet wool ripped under the immense weight. With a final, quiet look, Michael fell back into the darkness, disappearing into the roaring waters of the quarry lake below.
Vincent lay on his stomach at the cliff edge, his breathing ragged, rain washing the mud and blood from his face.
Marcus walked up behind him, placing a heavy, supportive hand on Vincent’s drenched shoulder. "He's gone, Vincent. We have to clear the area before the local authorities spot the smoke."
Vincent slowly stood up. He turned around to face his family.
Elena was on her knees in the mud, holding Nico tightly while Luca stood beside them, still holding the silver pistol by his side. Clara walked slowly through the rain, stopping right in front of Vincent.
She held up the old silver watch she had retrieved from the cabin floor.
May you like
Vincent took the watch, wiped the water from its face, and snapped the silver band around his own wrist.
"Come on," Vincent said softly, picking Clara up into his arms. "Let's go home."
