Fishbones Book II – Chapter 40: Giuramento

Posted On February 24, 2021

by Eyugho

When he looked back at that moment, Demos couldn’t recall if it hurt. All he could think of was the color red, the bead of blood at the end of his finger as Victor pulled back the needle. Even in the dim light of the room it was vivid—crimson.

There were no windows in the meeting room at Ristorante Giorgetti, leaving a few candles the only source of light. It was difficult to see the faces of the other men at the table, but Demos knew them by heart. Every capo in the family, including his uncles Victor and Roberto. And the head of the family at the head of the table—Gino.

The evening had swept past in a blur. Suited up, ushered into the back room of the restaurant. It had only been a day ago that Demos had been in a dingy motel room, prying a molar from an open, trembling mouth. Now he was standing beside his uncle who had taken his hand, then pricked his fingertip with a thin, clean needle. Demos tilted his hand, letting the bead of blood run down the side of his finger.

His eyes fell to the table, where a single card had been laid in front of him. It was the sacred likeness of a saint, a modest man in brown with a songbird in hand. St. Francis of Assisi. Slowly, Demos drew his finger across the image, smearing a bright streak of blood over the muted colors of the illustration.

With a breath, he lifted the card. It only took the faintest touch of the candle flame before the corner began to burn.

“Giuro di essere fedele a cosa nostra,” Demos said as he watched as the flame slowly consume the card. The bloodied saint warped, then crinkled black. “Possa la mia carne bruciare come questo santino se non manterrò fede al giuramento.”

The card dropped onto a glass ashtray, curling into itself with one last flicker. But before the flame could die, the doors burst open with a clack.

“Gino!” cried the figure in the doorway. Light flooded the room and every eye turned toward the man in the doorway—his foul grimace barely visible in the dark of his silhouette. Alonzo.

“This one?” Alonzo spat, a single finger pointed straight between Demos’ eyes. He was sweating, panting for air. “This meticcio before your own brother?”

There was a scrape of wood and Demos glanced sideways to see his grandfather stand.

“Stai zitto. I’m giving you one chance, Alonzo,” Gino said, his voice steady. “Close the door and leave.” His eyes gleamed against the invading lamp light, their brilliant blue set directly on his brother. “Or speak again and see what becomes of you.”

Alonzo spat onto the floor. “He’s the one keeping me out? Do you know how many years—how many decades—“

“The only one who has kept you out is yourself. You and your hubris and the weak spine that struggles each day holds your failing body upright.”

Alonzo said nothing, only staring as he fought to catch his breath.

“You call my grandson a half breed, yet you’re hardly half a man.” It was Gino’s turn to point. He gestured out the door toward the entrance of the restaurant. “Leave. You are not welcome here now—” His glare tightened. “—Or ever again.”

“I’m your brother, Gino!” Alonzo seemed to have found his voice and it resounded across the small meeting room. “Your own brother!”

“You are a memory I’ve already forgotten.”

Every chair at the table creaked as the men in attendance stood at Gino’s sides. Their eyes hadn’t left Alonzo’s face, only watching—waiting.

“You—“ Gino said. “Are gone.”

Alonzo’s hands had tightened to fists, shaking. There was blood in his eyes, something smoldering behind them. He let out a single hard breath before speaking.

“And you, too,” Alonzo said. “Will be a memory.”

The doors slammed shut, and he was gone.

Demos could still see the outline of Alonzo’s figure against white, even when he looked away. The drumming of his pulse seemed loud enough to reach every corner of the room, pounding against the inside of his chest while his eyes struggled to focus.

His gaze found the ashtray. The gust from the door had snuffed the fire, leaving only a tiny corner of the card unscathed.

A trace of white nestled in a pile of ash.

#

Whether it was a manor, a restaurant, or a 32 meter high performance motor yacht, Demos almost always found himself in the kitchen. Even when it was his own party. Or—especially when it was his own party. Per Giorgetti tradition, Gino had hosted a small open sea get-together following his grandson’s initiation.

La Veloce was a steel hulled yacht featuring six cabins and four decks. Wood grain and gray hues lined the interior, each surface dimly lit with soft lighting. The upper deck held a fully functional kitchen where Demos had been tucked away for the last half hour. It was a tight but elegant space—steel and marble with a view of the dark sea outside. Evening had settled over the water, making the warm glow of the ship even more lucent.

“I’m surprised you’re hiding away in the kitchen,” Ferris said. There wasn’t much room in the narrow galley kitchen and he was doing his best to stay out of the way.

“Felt like too much attention.” Demos was stirring onions and garlic in a saucepan at the stove. He had been on the yacht enough times to know it was fitted to counter the sway of the sea. If anything spilled, it would be his own fault.

Ferris leaned back onto the cabinet behind him. “But you love attention.”

“True. But I love being alone with you more,” Demos said with a smile. Heat rose in Ferris’ face and Demos bit his lip to hold back a laugh. Sometimes it was too easy.

The case of “being alone” didn’t last long. A third figure entered the narrow kitchen, this one in a light gray suit. The owner of the ship.

“Nonno,” Demos said as his grandfather kissed each side of his face. The same gesture his initiation had concluded with.

“Ah,” Gino said as he pulled back. “Some oil escaped your pan.”

His grandfather was looking directly at his face, meaning a droplet of cooking oil must have found his cheek. Gino reached inside his jacket for a handkerchief, only to find it empty.

“Hm.” He patted his other pockets with no luck, then offered his grandson a smile. “Must have misplaced it.”

Just as Demos began to wonder if his grandfather had ended someone’s life and forgotten about it, Gino reached up to rub the spot off with his thumb.

“Enjoy yourself, Piccolo,” Gino said, his smile holding. “I can handle the cooking.”

“As soon as I finish the polpetti.” Demos returned the look. “Lo prometto.”

Gino gave him a nod then returned to the main deck’s lounge. The moment he was gone, Demos’ attention fell back on his saucepan. It was nearly done.

“Here.” Demos held a cooking spoon of tomato sauce up toward Ferris. “Try this.”

Ferris shot him a wary look. “Since when have I had any say in your cooking?”

“Are you going to help me or not?”

Ferris gave in, leaving his post at the cabinets to lean in for a taste. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully before he started his verdict.

“It’s—“ He paused then glanced down. “On my shirt.”

Demos winced and set down the spoon. “Shit, sorry.”

Sure enough, a bright red spot had landed directly on Ferris’ otherwise white shirt. It seemed Demos had spilled something after all. And there was no blaming the roll of the ocean—not on La Veloce. It was his fault.

“There should be some shirts in the master cabin,” Demos said as he turned off the stove. “I’ll show you.”

The master cabin was on the main deck as well, at the bow of the ship. Demos took his partner by the wrist into a side passageway, then slipped into the privacy of the cabin. The room was lit by a thin track of lighting around the overhead, the gleam falling on a modern suite set out in neutral grays and whites. The door slid shut behind them.

Demos crouched at a dresser and began to shuffle through the drawers. “I think there was one your size here.”

“I heard what happened with Alonzo,” Ferris said as he unbuttoned the stained shirt. It seemed Ferris had been waiting for a moment alone to bring it up. “I guess we don’t need to prove anything since, well—he took care of it himself.”

“Yeah,” was all Demos said. That moment had been replaying in his head the entire evening. The look in Alonzo’s eyes, his words. “And you, too, will be a memory.” Something about it gave him a chill, one that reached the darkest depths of his chest. But there was nothing to be done about it. Alonzo was gone.

“Here.” Demos straightened himself, handing his partner a folded white button-up. “This should fit.”

Ferris slid out of the old shirt and reached for the new one. “So, how do you feel? Now that you’re made.”

Demos folded his arms. “Like I can do whatever I want.”

“You always do whatever you want,” Ferris said with a flat glare.

“You’re right, I feel the same,” Demos said. He reached for the shirt as Ferris pulled it on, buttoning it for him. “But—I wouldn’t have made it this far without you.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“It’s true.” Demos was quiet for a moment. The final button fastened and he rested a hand on Ferris’ chest, simply holding it there. “I’m just—I’m glad you’re here. I don’t know what I would do if I lost you again.”

“You won’t.”

The next thing Demos felt was two hands holding his face. They looked at each other in the silent cabin before Demos leaned upward. He closed his eyes, drawing Ferris in by the shirt. Their lips had nearly touched when a sound froze them in place.

The door slid open with a clack and Demos could hear a familiar voice behind him.

“Benny? Are you—oh.”

He turned to see Gina staring at the two of them from the doorway with a twitch in her wide-eyed glare. Her eyelids tightened in distaste before the door slammed shut, leaving the two alone once more.

“Shit,” Demos hissed between his teeth before darting out after her. He threw the door open, chasing her shadow around a corner. She had made her way onto the deck outside, reaching the railing before he finally caught her arm.

“Gina—please.” Demos looked up at her, his eyes pleading. “I know you hate me, but please don’t tell them I—“

A hand on his shoulder stopped him. The ice had left her gaze, replaced by something he had never seen on her features before. Her eyes had set directly on his own, tired but sincere. Her fingers tightened and then—

She pulled him into her arms, her embrace tight—warm. His breath caught and he could only stare forward as she spoke against him.

“Demos,” she said, her voice low. “I’ve never hated you.” She let out a slow sigh, the sound almost lost to the wind over the sea. “I just find you to be—immensely irritating.”

Demos’ stare flattened. “This was almost a nice moment,” he muttered.

She pulled back, keeping her eyes on his. “Also, it was very obvious.”

“Right.”

Gina glanced over Demos’ shoulder. Ferris had caught up and she greeted him with a look of pity.

“It seems he’s caught you. My condolences.”

“Thank you,” Ferris said with a defeated smile.

Demos huffed and crossed his arms. “Hey, fuck you guys.”

“So, you’ll keep this to yourself?” Ferris asked, ignoring Demos’ protest.

“Of course,” Gina said. “And I appreciate you never bringing up Nadia.”

Ferris stared at her for a moment. “What about Nadia?”

Gina’s thoughtful look dropped to something more callous. “…Nevermind. You idiots deserve each other.”

Ferris gave a helpless shrug. “She’s not wrong.”

Despite the casual turn of the conversation, Demos’ heart hadn’t stopped pounding. Gina had surprised him with her mercy, but it could have been anyone who walked in on that cabin. He had been careless. So caught up in his affection that he’d almost lost everything. One the day he was supposed to have gotten it all.

“And this,” Gina said, gesturing to the stern of the yacht where the celebration was still going. Charged with the sound of chatter and wine glasses. “I told you, didn’t I?”

Demos could still remember it. Gina in the back of that car, reminding him of the reason Victor was never easy on him. The reason he’d had to earn every ounce of respect the hard way. Her tone when she had said, “So sit up. And think about how fortunate you are.”

“Yeah.” He looked back up at her, his lips flattening as he fought the urge to smile. “You did.”