Sweet Fall

For a moment, I just paused. This song was my childhood. It was bullets being drowned out as we lay in bed, trying desperately to sleep. It was Mamma taking our hands and spinning us ’round, making us laugh on Christmas day, trying to make us forget we got no presents, no turkey and stuffing to eat. And it was a painful reminder of what Mamma could’ve been. She was an opera singer, a soprano. Mamma was from Florence. My daddy’s folks had been Sicilian but moved to the States—Alabama—in the fifties. My daddy went to his grandparents for a visit, Mamma was on tour with her opera society, and they ended up in Verona at the Teatro di Verona. That night, while traveling around Italy, my daddy saw her sing. Luca Carillo was gone for Chiara Stradi at one look: dark-brown eyes, long dark hair… She was beautiful. Within weeks, he’d made her fall for him too. She left her singing and family behind, and Daddy returned to the US with an exotic wife in tow. Mamma’d disgraced her family; they never spoke to her again.

But a nineteen-year-old Chiara Stradi hadn’t known about twenty-six-year-old Luca Carillo’s drinking problem. She hadn’t known he was a slut. She hadn’t known that years later, she’d wake up dirt poor, in a doublewide in the worst part of town, her husband gone, having run away from his responsibilities, her dreams shattered, no family to help, and stuck with three growing boys to clothe and feed.

This song had lifted her spirits.

This song had kept her unwavering Catholic faith intact.

This song had kept her strong.

I prayed to God it’d make her strong now.

Moving back to see her lying peacefully, I almost broke down as her top lip crooked into a contented smile, even in sleep.

Tucking the faded quilt around her sleeping body, I tipped my head forward to my steepled hands, closed my eyes, and offered a silent prayer, “Dio ti benedica, Mamma.”

May God bless you, Mamma.

Gathering the dirty laundry from Mamma’s room, I headed out of the trailer to the Laundromat on the site. Passing several of my old crew, I kept my head down, ignoring the shitty looks they were casting my way. The only thing stopping them from shanking my ass was the fact that Gio’d let me out without repercussion. That and the fact that all the brothers were shit scared of what Axel would do to them if they even dared touch a hair on my head.

Bursting through the doors of the Laundromat, I ignored the coked-up junkie passed out on the row of plastic red chairs and loaded the washing machine, setting it on the quick wash. Leaning back against the heavy-with-graffiti wall, I tried to stop intense anger from taking me over.

How could Axel be leaving Mamma like this? While he’s out with his “family,” dealing snow and making green, Mamma was lying in a pool of her own piss, stinking of a week’s worth of sweat.

And Levi! Where the f**k was the little shit at nearly midnight? One thing was for sure. He wasn’t going to school. Meaning shit grades… meaning no football… meaning zero chance of him getting a scholarship to UA to play for the Tide.

My nails bit into my palms as my fists clenched so tight that I was sure I’d drawn blood. This f**kin’ gang was the bastard bane of my life. First Axel, then me, now Levi.

It was Gio.

All Gio’s fault.

He’d set his sights on the Carillos ever since we were kids. All of us were tall and naturally strong—intimidating. Perfect for Heighter life. Perfect for Gio’s personal protection, and we all fell into it like his f**kin’ devout sheep, following the wolf to slaughter.

Everything my mamma fought so hard for was gone. She was gonna die watching her sons falling right into hell.

“Fuck, Carillo. If football don’t work out, you could always become a damn maid,” someone said from my right.

Gritting my teeth, I lifted my head to find Gio in the doorway, smirking at me. Like a naked flame to a can of gas, I exploded and found myself tackling Gio to the floor, pinning him to the sticky tiles, and I began pounding my fists into his face.

“Motherfucker!” I screamed over and over as Gio lifted his arms to protect himself from my blows.

Arms grabbed me from behind and wrenched me back. Ripping myself free, I turned on the punk who’d pulled me off and came face to face with Axel.

I just saw red.

I slammed my hands against his chest, and Axel’s wide eyes stared at me as he fell back into the plastic chairs, the sleeping junkie barely acknowledging what was happening right on top of him, too doped up with whatever shit he’d pumped into his veins.

Axel scrambled to his feet. I saw his fist clench, and I smiled. Bring it on, f**ker, I thought. I needed this. It had been a long time coming between him and me. I was done with his dumbass ways.