Book II – Chapter 02: Reunion

Posted On June 4, 2014

The Giorgetti compound was just as Ferris remembered it. The grounds occupied an entire city block, a stone manor sheathed in hedges and iron fencing. Security cameras hung like fruit in an orchard, observing every nook and cranny with a single blinking eye. With such a surplus of enemies, one could never be too careful.

Demos and Ferris were in a bedroom on the second floor, one which the young Italian had recently taken up permanent residence in. He had claimed that, upon leaving high school, he was too old to continue living with his uncle. Ferris had decided not to mention that living with his grandfather wasn’t much of an improvement, socially. This was perhaps because, upon returning to Southport, Ferris had yet to find a suitable apartment and was currently living with his mother.

“When you say everyone will be at dinner,” Ferris said, buttoning his shirt in front of a mirror, “do you mean—“

“Yes,” Demos cut in with a wave of his hand. “Everyone. Even Nonna is coming in from Italy.”

Ferris had never met Demos’ grandmother. While Gino seemed intent on running the family’s enterprise in the States, Isabella Giorgetti had insisted on remaining in Verona to manage their remaining assets.

“Permanently?” Ferris asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“We’re pulling out of Italy — for the most part. Nonno’s brother is going to run what’s left, but it looks like the States are more profitable for now.”

Demos was sitting on the bed, leaning back on his hands and scrutinizing his friend’s every move. His scowl had worsened with each passing minute and he bit his lower lip as he struggled to stay patient. Finally, he could no longer hold his tongue.

“Are you seriously going to wear that shirt?”

“What?” Ferris groaned, holding his hands out in protest. “It’s a plain white shirt.”

“It doesn’t fit you,” Demos huffed, closing his eyes as if talking to a toddler. “The sleeves are too long and it’s billowing above your belt. I told you not to go shopping without me.”

“This is exactly why I don’t go shopping with you.”

With an exasperated sigh, Demos crossed the room to rummage through a walnut wardrobe. He muttered to himself as he shuffled through a shopping bag, rustling tissue paper in irritation.

“Here. This was going to be for your birthday, but this is an emergency,” he said, offering a folded dress shirt with both hands.

“I would hardly qualify a dinner party as an emergency,” Ferris mumbled. “But thanks.”

He examined the shirt with a squint. It was sharp and neat, made with gray patterned cotton by an Italian tailor.

“The collar is a little wide, so use a half-Windsor.”

“I wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise,” Ferris replied, setting it down on the dresser to remove the offensive monstrosity he was currently wearing. As the shirt came off, he could see Demos go still in the mirror’s reflection.

“What’s—“ Ferris started, but paused when he noticed his friend’s eyes. They had fallen on his side, or, more specifically, the pink burn scar that resided there. The mark ran from his upper thigh to his ribs, the skin textured and sunken. It was large and imposing, a permanent snapshot of an old memory.

Demos had seen the scar before, but his reaction was always the same. The Ghost would fall silent, his eyes tightening and spine weakening with guilt. Ferris hurried to replace the shirt, sliding his arms into the crisp new sleeves and drawing the buttons together from top to bottom.

“How does it look?” Ferris asked, attempting to distract his friend.

“…It’s perfect,” Demos said, his voice soft as he forced a tiny smile. “But you can’t wear that belt with black shoes.”

Ferris slumped over the dresser, ready to smother his companion with a pillow.

After another few minutes of fussing, Ferris seemed to have met Demos’ standards — barely. He rubbed the back of his neck, noticing his own frown in the mirror.

“Um… I was wondering,” Ferris said, avoiding eye contact.

“Yeah?”

“Is… is Emily coming, too?”

Demos looked down at the wooden floor. Emily hadn’t been in Southport for the last year, having spent her final few semesters abroad in Italy. Part of Ferris wondered if she had left because he had returned — the timing was uncanny, but realized he might be overrating his relevance in her life.

“…Yes. But—“

“But what?” Ferris asked, turning to face the other.

“Don’t expect much. She’s changed.”

“Oh,” Ferris murmured in response. He closed his eyes for a moment, then moved to sit beside his friend on the bed. For a while, he didn’t move, only looking down at the hands folded between his knees.

“Does she still hate me?”

Demos didn’t respond. He either didn’t know the answer, or didn’t want to hurt Ferris with the truth. Though her and Ferris’ relationship had been secret, Demos had managed to weasel a confession out of her shortly after Ferris’ departure.

“Don’t worry about it,” Demos said after a moment. “Just try to enjoy yourself.”

Ferris gave a stiff nod, unable to look away from his clasped hands. The room was suddenly overwhelming, bearing down on him with its fine wainscoting and dark, textured wallpaper. It was quite different from the room Demos had used in Victor’s home. It had been embellished with photographs and fashion magazines, its furnishings simple and modern — the room of a teenager. This new room, his space in the manor, was old and elegant, laid out with carved wood and patterned curtains.

“Look on the bright side — you get to see Benny again,” the Italian added.

“Benny and Gina are back?”

“I’m trying to be positive here — leave Gina out of it.”

Ferris finally laughed, his smile easing the stiffness in the air. “Is he still tall as hell?”

“Stupid tall. He’s going to have to bend down to kiss you.”

“What.”

“You know, when you see him,” Demos said with a shrug.

“What.”

“Mm, ah… right. That’s an Italian thing. Wait, you’ve never done it, have you?”

Ferris shook his head, his stomach growing progressively more knotted.

“Oh, don’t be so scared. It’s simple. Just kiss the right cheek, then the left. But you don’t really use your lips… you kind of just brush cheeks and making a kissing sound.”

“That doesn’t sound simple at all,” Ferris said, his frown slowly creeping back.

“You’re lucky we’re Italian. In some places they do it three or four times.”

“No wonder Europeans never get anything done.”

Ferris was immediately rewarded with a swat on the back of his head. Though he cursed under his breath, his smile only widened.

“So, you got it?”

“Um…” Ferris said, nervously covering his mouth with his palm. “I… I guess so.”

“Do you want to try it?”

“What, now?” Ferris sputtered, his eyes darting towards his painfully nonchalant companion.

“Here,” Demos said, shifting himself so he could face the taller man. “Look at me.”

The bed shifted as he folded his leg beneath his knee. Ferris followed suit, clearing his throat as he attempted to retain his posture.

“Okay. I’m looking at you.”

“Remember,” Demos added, lifting his chin as he leaned in. “Right, then le— ow!”

The two had unceremoniously bumped foreheads halfway through the motion, leaving Ferris flushed in embarrassment and Demos hunched forth in pain.

“Your other right,” Demos hissed, rubbing his sore temple.

“Sorry. I’m not used to this.”

“God, you’re so American,” he said, giving an exaggerated eye roll.

“You’re American, too.”

“I have dual citizenship,” Demos replied with a smug grin. “I can be whatever I’m in the mood for.”

“I didn’t know they issued passports in the Republic of Dicks.”

This earned him yet another smack on his head.

By the time the sun set, the driveway of the compound was lined with cars. Ferris recognized nearly every face, though some were more familiar than others. There was, of course, Gino — the head of the Giorgetti family and their affairs in the States. It was he who had brought them to Southport, carefully planning and anticipating to build their efforts from a small-time racket to a powerful empire. He, his sons, and now his grandsons, had all been carefully positioned and primed to ensure a tenacious hierarchy.

Gino recieved his wife with open arms, embracing her amidst affectionate kisses. Isabella was an elegant woman, her white hair falling in a curled sweep to her jawline. Her dress and shawl were black, accented by a trail of long, polished pearls around her neck.

“Mi sei mancato così tanto,” she hummed against the man’s ear, receiving a knowing smile in return. Ferris struggled to translate the buzz of Italian filling the air, suddenly wishing that he hadn’t switched to French in his first year of college. Just as he was beginning to recall his disastrous attempts at cheek kissing, Gino caught his eye.

Luckily, the woman introduced herself with a handshake, placing a warm palm over Ferris’ knuckles.

“I have heard so much about you,” she said, her voice like precise, polished bronze.

“Piacere,” he replied, surprised at how much her tone calmed him.

“Molto lieta.”

His moment of fortuitous serenity was decimated as another half dozen family members poured in through the entrance.

“Fish! I can not believe it. You are return!”

Beniamino, better known as Benny, swept Ferris up in a pair of terribly muscled arms, placing a kiss on each cheek before he could say a word in return. It had all happened so fast that there was no time to stammer — not even a moment to attempt to remember the motions. It was over.

“Benny,” Ferris said, straightening his glasses as he exhaled in relief. “You look amazing.”

Compared to the last time they had met, Benny did indeed look rather spectacular. Chemotherapy had borne down on the man rather cruelly, leaving him gaunt and weak. At the moment, however, Benny was sporting a full head of thick, curly hair and a barrel chest that could likely stop an oncoming car.

“Yes,” Benny nodded, shamelessly stroking his own squared chin. “I do!”

It was then that Benny’s sister, and physical opposite, brushed past. Gina was slim and stringent, her skin three shades lighter than her sibling’s and her demeanor twice as cold.

“Ciao,” was all she said to Ferris, barely making eye contact before disappearing into the dining room.

“I missed you, too,” Ferris muttered, earning a laugh and a slap on the shoulder from Benny.

From across the foyer, he could see Demos embracing one of his aunts, his speech drowned out by the thrum of voices between them. Yet, somehow, the sounds all stopped when he saw a new figure enter the house. He could see her just over Demos’ shoulder, smiling as she accepted a kiss from her father. Ferris’ ears seemed to have stopped working, leaving him enveloped in silence as he watched Emily turn away from the door. She shifted, finally facing him, close enough that there wasn’t a soul between their bodies.

“Emily.”

Before the word could even complete itself, her eyes had flickered away. She walked past him — no smile, no nod — not a single word. He stared at the spot where she had been as the chatter and rattle of dishes once again filled his ears.

He felt a tug; Demos had found him, wrapping his fingers around Ferris’ arm. The Ghost brushed his thumb over the underside of Ferris’ wrist, carefully bringing him back down to earth.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice gentle.

“Yeah,” Ferris replied, the word dry as it escaped his throat. “I’m fine.”

Dinner began with wine, followed by an antipasto of marbled prosciutto and pesto crostini. Ferris took his usual place beside Demos, on autopilot as he made small talk. His mouth held no connection to his brain, moving on its own as he spoke about his final year at Yale and the grind of his new job. He was beginning to lose focus, barely noticing as a bowl of soup was placed before him. The scent of escarole drifted below, begging for his attention as his eyes wandered once again three seats down. Emily was pointedly facing the other direction, doing everything in her power to avoid his side of the table — it was probably hurting her neck.

“Eat your soup,” came Demos’ voice from his left. Ferris forced himself to look away, catching the look of pained offense on his friend’s face.

“I made it,” Demos added, showing with a simple crease of his lips that his hard work had better not go to waste. Ferris closed his eyes, responding with a faint smile before lifting his spoon to follow orders.

He had missed his friend’s cooking. Demos was just as particular about his food as he was with his wardrobe. Where others might have a passion for dance, travel, or ‘doing the right thing,’ Demos held a profound love for sweet basil — for paring knives and subtle drizzles of olive oil. As the curved rim of the spoon reached his lips, Ferris could taste it — in the hints of garlic and fresh Parmesan, he could taste his friend’s absurd infatuation with food.

“Fuck,” he muttered, sucking his lower lip. Demos said nothing, only smirking to himself before returning his attention to his wine.

It was only when Ferris heard the scrape of chair legs that he remembered where he was. He glanced up just in time to watch Emily leave the table, exiting through the arch into the foyer. He waited a moment, then stood.

Ferris slunk down the empty hall, flanked by oil paintings and brass knobs. A door clicked open through the back — she must have gone into the yard.

His feet stopped beside the threshold. He could see her past the paned windows, hugging her elbows against the cool night air. She looked remarkably different, yet he couldn’t place the reason. Her acorn brown hair was still short, but now set in a more mature bob. Perhaps it was the years showing in her eyes — the ones that he had missed in his absence.

Ferris took a breath, then stepped outside.

The moment the door opened, she looked over, her jaw tight with panic. With a sharp intake of air, she turned to leave, bumping his shoulder as she retreated towards the door.

“Wait,” he blurted, reaching forth, then changing his mind. “Wait, please. I just want to ask you one thing.”

She put her hand on the doorknob.

“Emily,” he begged, his fingernails digging into his palms.

The air between them was silent. He ignored the prickling in his hands, holding his breath as he watched her think. Finally, her hand dropped from the knob.

“Make it quick,” she muttered.

Relieved, and quite a bit surprised, he attempted to gather his thoughts. There was only one question in his mind.

“Why are you pretending I’m not even here?”

“Why do you think?” she replied, still refusing to make eye contact.

“I don’t know,” he sighed, running a hand through his shortly cropped hair. “You’re mad because I left?”

“I’m mad at you because you left,” she echoed, her tone as dry as summer pavement. “Really?”

“You tell me.”

Emily only scoffed, folding her arms more tightly across her chest.

“Tell me,” he repeated. “At least give me some kind of closure.”

This didn’t appear to be the right thing to say.

“Oh, like the closure you gave me?” she spat, her eyes snapping up to meet his. Her glare startled him and for a moment he forgot how to speak.

“Emily,” he said, finally finding his voice. “That was years ago. We were teenagers.”

“We went through so much together,” Emily said, trying to swallow a croak. “And then, suddenly… ‘Here’s a bag of Demos’ shit. By the way, I’m leaving forever.’ And you were gone, just like that.”

She embellished her words with a snap of her fingers.

“You weren’t even upset about it,” she continued. The dam restraining her emotions seemed to have collapsed. “It was so easy for you. It took me forever to get used to the idea of never seeing you again. And then… then you just waltz back into our lives when it’s convenient for you. When you missed him too much.”

She gestured towards the house, though it was obvious who ‘him’ was.

“Easy? You think it was easy? I never stopped thinking about you… about you, everyone… about this stupid city. About…”

He sucked in his next breath through his teeth, his eyes clenching shut.

“I missed you,” he murmured, “and I’m sorry.”

“Don’t lie to me,” she seethed. “You came back for him. Not me.”

Ferris didn’t reply, suddenly unable to look her in the eye.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought,” Emily sneered.

Ferris’ hands fisted at his sides. He attempted to speak, swallowed his words, then tried again.

“All right,” he answered, his voice hardening. “Fine. Hate me. But at least be civil with me when we’re around others. We’re adults now.”

His eyes rose, narrowed behind the frames of his glasses.

“You should act like one,” he continued.

Emily brushed her sleeve, then forced a tense nod. “But don’t try to chat me up.”

“Fine,” he said through his teeth, then turned to go back inside. He couldn’t take another second of her voice. As his feet swept over the hallway rug, a buzzing began to swell in the back of his skull. Everything was white, too bright to focus on and too fuzzy to discern. There was so much noise in his head that he couldn’t possibly have noticed Emily wiping her eyes beside the window.

When Ferris found his seat at the dinner table, the second course was nearly finished. Demos shot him a sideways look. Ferris only scowled, shaking his head as he slumped into his chair. The Italian went back to his braised pork without protest. He hadn’t expected much else.

Though the baccala on his plate had been prepared specifically for him, Ferris had lost his appetite. He instead developed an intimate relationship with the nearest bottle of Amarone. By the time dessert was served, he had lost count of the glasses he’d consumed.

“My head hurts,” Ferris groaned, his breath still reeking of wine despite the dinner party being long finished. He slouched on the sofa, dramatically burying his face in both hands.

“Your head always hurts,” Demos said with an eye roll. “And maybe you shouldn’t have started drinking like it’s going out of style.”

Ferris’ response was nothing more then a dismissive wave and an unapologetic groan. Demos threw up his hands, gesturing in irritation to an audience of no one before leaving the room. Only a moment passed before he returned, sitting beside his friend and offering a tall glass.

“Have some water,” he said, placing the cup on Ferris’ wobbling hands. “Ah, careful.”

With a mumble of thanks, Ferris lifted the glass, nursing the drink with a childish glower. The sitting room was dim, illuminated by a single table lamp. The rest of the manor was already dark.

“What did she say to you?” Demos finally asked, leaning forward as he lit a cigarette.

“Nothing,” Ferris answered, sliding further down in his seat.

“Sit up, you idiot. Tell me what happened.”

“She hates me,” he said, his voice muffled against the rim of the glass. “I’d never seen her so pissed.”

“Well, she’s been grouchier since she started school.”

“What the hell is she majoring in, anyway?” Ferris slurred, nearly spilling his water. “Being shitty?”

“Sort of,” Demos said with a smirk. “Law.”

“Great.”

“Well, maybe now you can move on and start dating. You’ve been single since high school.”

“And deal with all that shit again? Sometimes I can see why you like men.”

“Hah,” Demos said, grinning as he exhaled a waft of smoke. “Sorry, Fish. Men are even bigger drama queens than women.”

Ferris scoffed, setting his cup down on the coffee table. He still felt dizzy and placed both hands on the edge of the couch to steady himself.

“She was right, though,” he whispered.

“About what?”

Ferris looked at his empty glass, wishing that his head didn’t feel so heavy. It felt as if it might snap off of his neck.

“…Nothing.”

Demos watched his friend for a while, taking in the flush in his cheeks and the wavering in his posture.

“Want me to talk to her?” he offered.

“Fuck her,” Ferris grumbled, finally collapsing forward onto his knees. “I don’t care.”

“I’ll ask you again when you’re sober.”

When Ferris finally was sober, it was Sunday afternoon and he was in a warm, rumpled bed. It seemed he had stayed the night at the Giorgetti compound. With some effort, he sat upright, rubbing his face with a hand. He still had a headache.

Eventually, he made his way downstairs, instinctively following the scent of espresso. Sure enough, Demos was seated on a barstool with two cappuccinos on the kitchen counter.

“Where’s Gino?” Ferris asked, wearily scratching the back of his head.

“He took Nonna out for brunch. I stayed behind to babysit.”

“How sweet,” he replied, taking a seat and crumpling onto the countertop. His glasses sat tilted over his nose and bits of dark hair stuck up on the back of his head.

“You’re sexy in the morning,” Demos said, sipping from his cup.

“Shut up,” Ferris grumbled. The cappuccino saucer scraped the counter as he dragged it closer. “What happened last night? I don’t remember getting into bed.”

“I helped you upstairs,” he explained. “But that was before you got on your phone and ordered flowers for Emily.”

“What?” Ferris blurted, the cup jerking in his hands. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

“I tried, but you said it was your money and for me to stop telling you what to do and—“

“Christ, I’m stupid,” Ferris interrupted, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Ferris’ eyes screwed shut and he waited before daring to ask one last thing.

“How much were they?”

“$250.”

Wordlessly, Ferris let his forehead drop back onto the counter, rattling the ceramic cups in their saucers.