I often dreamed of blood.
Rivers of it, filling my mouth and choking me. Drowning me and everyone I cared about, with no hope of survival.
The dreams started back when I was a foot soldier, still being groomed under my father’s watchful eye. In those days, the boss’s son did not receive a pass on the more gruesome of tasks. No, they used those tasks to harden me, to turn me from a boy into a man.
A man capable of leading the world’s most dangerous mafia. The ’Ndrangheta.
There had been no choice for me, no other life to consider. As the years went on, I followed instructions and never dared show a hint of weakness. Torture and killing became second nature to me, work I learned to love. It earned me respect from my ’ndrina brothers and fear from my enemies. Whispers followed me wherever I went, the tales of my cruelty spread far and wide.
This made my father proud.
He told me this often, especially after watching me at my worst. They called him in when I was too eager with my knife, the blood of our enemies staining every part of me red like the Devil. It was from this that the legend of il Diavolo was born. Gutting, dismembering, disemboweling . . . the pain I doled out was returned tenfold in my father’s love.
It became a vicious cycle for me, more killing to earn more praise, until I hardly slept due to the nightmares. Even years later, I slept only three or four hours before I woke up in a cold sweat, a scream clawing at my throat. Then I would get up and exercise, running until I nearly dropped.
This was my life before she came along. I had more than most men could ever dream of, even if exhaustion stalked my every waking moment, so it was enough. I wouldn’t ever trade my life for a clear conscience.
Then she arrived, with her fire and sass. And the bad dreams? They stopped when I was with her. For a few blissful weeks, I had a respite from the ghosts of my past, my first decent sleep in decades.
Then I sent her away.
The dreams have returned, but worse because they include her. My dolcezza, alone and scared, her body bleeding out in front of my eyes, and there is nothing I can do about it. My nightmares don’t care that Francesca betrayed me, that she was not the person I believed her to be. No, my nightmares live to torture me and drive me insane night after night, pushing me to the limits of my endurance.
My son also featured in my dreams, and each time I find him dead. They always killed him before I can save him, leaving his lifeless body for me to find. My good boy, slaughtered like a pig.
So much blood. So much death.
Chi male comincia, peggio finisce.
A bad beginning makes a bad ending.
This is the life I have chosen. No matter what happens, there is no going back.
