Addictive Alessandro

By Anne Marie Citro

Alessandro Savage walked through the same maze of streets in the French Quarter that he had walked for the last few months. He carried two things: his guitar case and a bottle of Jack. Months of self-induced punishment, wandering lost, looking for redemption. At least, that was the lie he told himself. It should have been him who died that fateful night the music had died in the Las Vegas massacre. He could never have absolution, because he had committed a crime unforgivable to those he loved.
Family was everything to the Savage brothers. Alessandro had broken that sacred bond when he had killed his oldest brother. He hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger, but he was as guilty as the man who had. This was why he needed to get drunk every day to numb the pain. He couldn’t deal with not being able to go back to the past and make things right.
Ava Lombardi hated bachelorette parties and her cousin’s was going to be extremely painful. She was spending four days at Savage’s Buck & Doe Resort. Ava was a beautiful loner who had the ability to help the Savage family find Alessandro but didn’t want to get involved.
Getting Alessandro home was only half of the battle the other would be helping him to become clean and sober and stay that way. Ava had closed herself off years ago but not all ghosts were left better in the past.
Not all rehabilitation opposed to addiction were about abstinence. Could two souls that lost redemption find peace in each other’s arms? Would Ava be the one addiction Alessandro couldn’t beat?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anne Marie Citro
• Release date: Aug 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463618141

Anne Marie Citro

Anne Marie Citro grew born and raised in the greater Toronto area of Ontario, Canada. She grew up in a large, loving family. Anne Marie is married to a very patient man. He is the love of her life. They have four very cool sons, and the girls they brought into their family that have become daughters of her heart. She has been blessed enough to finally have a beautiful granddaughter after four sons. She has her own personal gaggle of girlfriends, who enrich her life on a daily basis and make her laugh. Caesar Friday is her favourite day of the week. Caesars with the girls and date night with her hubby. She works with special-needs teenagers, that have taught her how to appreciate life and see it through gentler eyes. Anne Marie was encouraged by her husband to follow her life long dream to write. She loves the characters that take over imagination and haunts her dreams. She loves the arts and she has tried her hand at painting, wood sculpting, chainsaw carving, wood burning, metal and wire sculptures. Yes, her husband is a very patient man! Anne Marie is an avid reader and enjoys about three books per week. But nothing makes her happier then riding on the back of her husband's Harley and throwing her arms out and feeling the wind race by. Anne Marie and her husband take a few weeks every year to travel to spectacular destination around the world. Anne Marie is excited and can't wait to see what the next chapter holds for her life.

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Anne Marie Citro

Published by Anne Marie Citro at Smashwords.

Copyright 2018 Anne Marie Citro

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

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Cover created by: Ravenne Villanueva

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Cover Picture by Anne Marie Citro

Model Marc Ferraro

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and events portrayed in this book either are from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, establishments, events, or location is purely coincidental and not intended by the author. Please do not take offence to the content as it is fiction.

Trademarks: This book identifies product names and services known to be trademarks, registered trademarks, or service marks of their respective holders. The authors acknowledge the trademarked status in this work of fiction. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

This book contains mature content not suitable for readers under the age of 18. This book contains content with strong language, violence, and sexual situations. All parties portrayed in sexual situations are over the age of 18.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Note to the Reader

Chapter 1: My Guitar Gently Weeps by The Beatles

Chapter 2: Gypsy by Fleetwood Mac

Chapter 3: Gravity by John Mayer

Chapter 4: Black Magic Woman by Santana

Chapter 5: House of the Rising Sun, by The Animals

Chapter 6: Witchy Woman by The Eagles

Chapter 7: Nights In White Satin by Moody Blues

Chapter 8: Amazing by Aerosmith

Chapter 9: Cocaine by Eric Clapton

Chapter 10: Man In The Mirror by Michael Jackson

Chapter 11: A Horse With No Name by America

Chapter 12: Devil In The Bottle by Lynyrd Skynyrd

Chapter 13: Blurred Lines by Robin Thicke (T.I. & Pharrell)

Chapter 14: Wicked Games by Chris Isaak

Chapter 15: She Talks To Angels by The Black Crows

Chapter 16: Better Boat by Kenny Chesney (Mindy Smith)

Chapter 17: I Say by Lauren Daigle

Chapter 18: I Bet My Life by Imagine Dragons

Chapter 19: Amazed by Lonestar

Chapter 20: Pull Me Through by Jim Cuddy

Epilogue: Simple Man by Lynyrd Skynyrd

Thank you

Acknowledgments

Sneak Peek

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my friend Diane Z, my very own strega (witch). I believe we meet certain people at certain times in our lives because they have something to teach us about ourselves, and we have a journey to fulfill together. Diane is an amazing friend, mom, wife, teacher, writer, and medium.

My inspiration for this book came from her being a medium. The book is not about her or her beliefs. It is my imagination about these characters that haunted my thoughts and dreams for months, plain and simple. Diane is not a medium by choice or by trade, and doesn’t tell many people. It takes a tremendous courage to share something most people don’t believe in. Diane opened herself up to skepticism and criticism by allowing me to understand her as a medium, and it gave me the most important facet of research I would do for this book. I was at a crossroads in my life when we developed our friendship, which was long before I found out about her being a medium. Certain parts of me were lost and didn’t want to be found.

Diane taught me I don’t have to fit into a neat little box that I was taught to believe in. It’s not for everyone, and that’s okay. I was lost, and her friendship helped me find a part of myself. For that I will always be thankful and respect who and what she is. Diane is a strong woman who supports everyone she comes into contact with. Her heart is bursting with life lessons and love, and I’m so honored to call her friend.

Note to the reader:

I have included a small glossary of Italian slang words. Some Italians might disagree with the meaning, but it is slang and regional. The meanings used in this book are what I grew up knowing.

Bambini – Babies

Bambino/bambina – Baby boy/baby girl

Basta – That’s enough

Bella – Beautiful

Bellissima – Gorgeous/very beautiful

Capisci – Do you understand?

Ciao – Hello or goodbye

Cara mia – My darling

Castagne – Chestnuts

Coglione – Asshole or male testicles

Cucciolo – Cub/puppy

Dolcezza – Sweetness

Dio mio – My God

Famiglia/famiglie – Family/families

Fanculo – Fuck

Il mio amore – My love

Patatino – little potato

Pazzo – Crazy

Piccola amore – Little love

Shamo – Stupid/idiot

Stunad – Moron

Scustumad – Stupid person

Strega – Witch

Stella/Stellina – Star/little star

Squisita – Exquisite/delicious

Topolina – Little mouse

Va Bene – All right

Vaffanculo – Fuck it

Chapter 1

My Guitar Gently Weeps by The Beatles

Alessandro walked through the same maze of streets in the French Quarter that he had traveled for the last few months. At only six thirty, the sun had set an hour ago, meaning the tourists would be out in full force soon, cruising up and down the streets, looking for the next best restaurant.

He carried two things: his guitar case and a bottle of Jack. Like every other homeless person in New Orleans, his bottle was in a paper bag. Somehow, he had convinced himself that if the other homeless people couldn’t see it, they wouldn’t know he had it; therefore, they wouldn’t try to steal it. If he had been of sane mind, he would have laughed at the absurdity of it.

He wasn’t of sane mind.

The weather was all over the board in November. Some nights, it was in the high sixties; others dipped down to the low forties. Alessandro wore layered T-shirts, a hoodie, and his green army jacket as he made the thirty-five-minute walk to his corner. His running shoes were getting worn. He would have to find another pair soon.

He played guitar and sang at the corner of Royal Street and St. Ann Street for money. Alessandro was good.

Harry, the guy who owned the bar across the street, had originally tried to remove him from that corner, but after he saw the crowds Alessandro drew, Harry encouraged him to stay. So, night after night, he brought him a folding camp chair to get comfortable in. Later, he would bring out a couple of water bottles and some food. It was usually a po’ boy sandwich that helped absorb the booze, ensuring Alessandro would play longer.

It had been months since he had walked away from his family. Months of self-induced punishment, wandering lost, looking for redemption. At least, that was the lie he told himself. He could never have absolution, because he had committed a crime unforgivable to those he loved and the God he worshipped.

Growing up, Alessandro had been the fourth of five sons, the funny, adventurous one. When he was younger, his mamma accused him of living his life without caring about the consequences. He had been a daredevil, and it had continued throughout his teenage years. He would try anything once, because life was worth truly living.

He used to ask his mamma how he would know he liked something if he didn’t try it. She would cuff him across the head or whack him with her wooden spoon and tell him, "Stupido, some things should be obvious." Maybe to her they were dumb, but until he ended up in the emergency room, he always thought it was worth a try.

Alessandro and his four brothers were all close in age. His three older brothers were each a year apart. Marcello had been four years older than him, Sabastian three, Luca two, and then Santino, the baby, was a year younger than him. Five boys, all within six years of one another. His dad had often joked that Alessandro broke his perfect score of a son a year.

His parents were the type of people dreams were made of. Shawn Savage, his dad, had been a musician, and not just any musician; he could play any instrument, and made a living doing it. Shawn had been the guy famous bands hired to travel with them when they toured, to enhance their sound in large stadiums and outdoor venues. Bands needed musicians who were good and could carry an instrumental solo while they took a break for a drink to soothe their vocal cords, or to simply catch their breath.

Shawn had been a legend in his field. Many bands had offered him full-time positions, but that hadn’t been for Shawn. He hadn’t been able to commit to one type of music or style of playing. He had loved them all. He had also liked that he could keep his family out of the public’s eye. He had seen too many musicians and their families get caught up in the dark side of fame. He had made very good money, but not the obscene amount that destroyed people.

His dad had been in such high demand, he was booked two years in advance. And Shawn had taught his sons everything he knew. All five had become accomplished musicians. When Shawn had sometimes brought an individual son along, the musicians would hear them play and ask them to join the tour. It was in those times that he had shown his sons what too much money and fame could do to people. He encouraged them to look at other aspects of the music world as alternative options for careers.

Marcello had liked being part of one band, and gravitated toward becoming an excellent guitarist. Sabastian had found the administrative part of the industry more to his liking. Luca had enjoyed the creative side of the industry and was sought after for creating amazing music videos. Alessandro had loved to play and sing, but he had found his niche in writing songs.

Out of the five of them, Sabastian had always been the best singer, so Alessandro thought he couldn’t sing because he wasn’t as good as his big brother. Santino had been the only one to continue his education, and, having received a degree from Julliard, was still deciding his path. Although each had different goals, playing music was in their veins, and they had continued to pick up local gigs or travel with their dad whenever possible.

Valentina, his mamma, had immigrated to America after falling in love. Six weeks later, she had married Shawn. They had met in her hometown of Perugia during the Umbria Jazz Festival. She had only been eighteen, and as beautiful as she was feisty. His dad had referred to her constantly as his angel, yet she had raised her sons like she was the devil herself.

It had taken her a while to learn English, but even after she had mastered the second language, she had only ever spoken to them in Italian. She had wanted her sons to speak her language.

The five of them had grown fast, and were all tall like her husband. In order to maintain any sense of control over the unruly bunch of heathens, Valentina, at five foot four, was quick with her hand and faster with her tongue. They respected the hell out of her, because she was crazy and ruthless, like a Mafia boss. Her word was law, and if they didn’t comply, her wooden pasta spoon or a flying shoe would soon help them see the light.

She was also the most loving mamma in the world, one who told them constantly she loved them and how proud she was, smothering them with affection. When they entered a room, they knew without being told that they were expected to kiss both of her cheeks and finish with a hug. Famiglia was everything to Valentina Savage.

That was what made it so hard to walk away. Famiglia had been drilled into his head for as long as he could remember. However, Alessandro had broken that sacred bond when he had killed his oldest brother, Marcello. He hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger, but he was as guilty as the man who had.

He couldn’t live with the burden of taking away his beloved mamma’s firstborn, and was now searching for a way to survive with the guilt.

It should have been him who died that fateful night the music had died in Las Vegas, not Marcello.

Alessandro’s dad had been booked many months in advance, but weeks before the festival, the band Shawn had been playing with called, asking if one of his sons could fill in for another musician who had to bow out. They had requested Alessandro specifically.

His dad had approached him, but Alessandro had told him that he would have to change another commitment in order to go, and that he would not be able to do it. He had finally landed a date with a woman he had been salivating over. She had a big deadline ahead of her and wouldn’t be free until that weekend. He had asked his dad to see if one of his brothers could go, and if no one could, he would change his plans.

His dad never got back to him, and Marcello had gone, so he had assumed everything was as it should be . . . until a man, hell-bent on notoriety and ready to face death, shot an automatic weapon out of a hotel room, blowing apart the Savage famiglia in ten minutes. Shawn and Marcello were dead, and the famiglia had been left with the fallout of the heinous, cruel act.

It had been horrible for the remaining brothers, who tried to console their grief-stricken mamma. Alessandro had struggled to understand that a bullet, only inches long, could turn a body that was so full of strength and life into a cold, empty corpse. Mortality, his own and everyone’s around him, was now always at the forefront of his mind. He wondered who would be next to die.

It was scary knowing you could be there one minute, and then be gone the next.

Even sadder was the fact that Shawn had been planning to retire at the end of the year to finally give his cherished wife a chance at her dream of opening a bed and breakfast. Alessandro’s dad had been so determined to share her dream that he had bought a large piece of property in Pennsylvania, near New Tripoli. He and his sons had secretly been working on it for ten years.

However, Shawn had altered her vision by turning the B&B idea into a small resort for bachelor and bachelorette parties. It had only been six months away from completion the day the music had died.

The remaining four brothers had banded together, leaving their jobs to finish what their dad had started. With their mamma at the helm, they now ran a very successful business.

It hadn’t been all sunshine and roses. Each of them had struggled to come to terms with the stress of losing famiglia members in the prime of their lives at the hands of a psycho, and living the dream their dad was supposed to. But they were making the best of it. Well, except for Alessandro.

Alessandro saw Harry standing at his corner with his chair in his hands and a smile on his face.

Hey, Alessandro, how you doing today?

Not returning his smile, he simply answered, Fine.

He took the chair, but didn’t ask how Harry was doing, because, frankly, he didn’t care. He didn’t want to be friendly. He had no use for friends. His only friend was Jack Daniels, and he didn’t require any conversation.

After the long walk, it was time to reintroduce Mr. Daniels to his companion for the night. He opened the chair, placed his guitar case on it, peeled back the bag from the neck of the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took his first long pull of the amber liquid. It was smooth, rich, and earthy, but Alessandro didn’t taste any of that. It was the burn and its ability to help him forget and dull his senses that drew him to the whiskey.

With every passing night, he had the intention of writing the distillery and telling them that they were doing something different, because Mr. Daniels wasn’t working the way it was supposed to. It took larger quantities with each day that passed to push him past the point of his pain. Some days, it didn’t even help his mind separate from his conscience. This shit wasn’t cheap, and he wanted his damn money’s worth.

Aggravated, he did the only other thing that helped with the pain and the guilt. He sat his ass down on the chair, opened his guitar case, and placed it in front of him to collect the thrown change. Then he placed the bottle beside the chair and, with his other solace in his hands, he began to strum the strings. He opened with the same song and closed his set with another.

Brother by NEEDTOBREATHE was the song he sang to his brother Marcello, because his first penance should be to the man he had killed. The last song would be My Old Man by Zac Brown Band, his last penance to the man he had let down and should have died with.

One by one, people stopped to hear the powerful lyrics sung with such agony and heartbreak. Every third person who dropped money into his case said, "You’re really good. Why are you here?" His silent answer was always the same—a nod in thanks. Where else would a guilt-ridden asshole play?

Alessandro had become a drunk, but he wasn’t a gutter punk as of yet. If he ever lost his guitar, he would be. The French Quarter was filled with gutter punks flocking to the congested areas where booze and drugs were always within reach.

Untreated mental illness was alive and well in the Big Easy, and panhandling was as common as the tourists who graced the streets.

Alessandro had heard that the only time the bars had to close on Bourbon Street was for the hour after Mardi Gras, to clean the streets. Every day he witnessed gutter punks standing near garbage cans, waiting for tourists to get rid of half-empty, supersized alcoholic drinks. In truth, he had tried it himself a time or two, when he had first arrived. But those drinks were so full of sugar, and he thought, if he continued, his next vice would be buying insulin on the streets.

The first penance done, it was time to get reacquainted with Mr. Daniels. A couple of people commented about how good he was and asked if he took requests as he guzzled his coping mechanism.

Sure, but only after this song, he answered. The next song was part of his personal atonement to the day the music had died.

He couldn’t help thinking, if people thought he was good, they should hear Sabastian sing. If they had, they would carry his brother away and try to be his agent.

He placed Mr. Daniels down and relocated his fingers to their proper place. He began the song he needed to play before he took the requests, My Guitar Gently Weeps by The Beatles.

The group of people watching wondered how someone could sing with so much warmth, and then become passionless the minute he stopped.

Alessandro played for two hours before his dinner arrived. He took a bite of his fried oyster po’ boy sandwich, and although he was thankful for the food, he was sick of deep-fried shit. He craved his mamma’s homemade spaghetti carbonara. The thought made him homesick and angry.

He knew the rules of the street and had made a colossal mistake by letting his mind wander before pocketing his money, then eating. In the blink of an eye, a gutter punk swooped in and grabbed a handful of his hard-earned cash. Didn’t the fucker know he sold his soul every night for that money?

Alessandro yelled to Harry’s retreating back, telling him to watch his stuff as he took off after the vermin. The little coglione was fast, and if thoughts of home hadn’t spiked his adrenaline, he might have lost him. He tackled the kid, and they both went flying into the side of a building. After a couple of swings, the little cockroach was subdued.

Give me my money, motherfucker.

The kid was too strung out to understand, so Alessandro searched his pockets. He pulled out all the money, along with a baggie containing a little rock of cocaine. Alessandro had never tried it, but he had seen Scarface a dozen times. He was taking it from the stunad for trying to steal his money. Let’s see how he felt when he was needing a fix and his stash was missing. That should teach him.

Alessandro pocketed the stuff, then headed back to his spot. He grumbled his thanks to Harry and sat down to eat his cold sandwich, washing the sandwich down with a bottle of water. He didn’t want the grease from the fried food diluting the burn from Mr. Daniels.

He started to strum, and a couple of guys stopped to listen. One of the guys pulled out a cigarette.

Give me a smoke, and I’ll sing whatever you want, Alessandro said.

Sure. The guy looked at his friends and smiled. I want ‘Stairway to Heaven’ by Led Zeppelin, and I’ll even light it for you. The guy handed him the cigarette and lit it.

Alessandro hated these preppy little cogliones. They wanted the longest song for the smallest amount of payment. They thought he was a lowlife, yet it was these types of guys who frequented his famiglia’s resort to celebrate their upcoming weddings and spend tons of money. Wouldn’t they shit if they knew he had jammed with some of the band members?

With the cigarette hanging out of his mouth, Alessandro started the intro. He played the eight-minute song to perfection. He usually liked to play it later in the night, because it commanded a larger crowd, but it was worth it to see the smug looks on their faces change to awe.

The guys were so impressed they dropped a couple of fives in his case.

He played until two a.m., then packed up and headed back to his hovel. He always walked down Bourbon Street, remembering the first time he had seen it with his dad. It was the first time he had ever played a concert, and he had been flying high.

"Gesú Cristo, Dad, look at this place. It’s amazing. No wonder you like being on the road."

The street was closed off to traffic, and there were hundreds upon hundreds of people walking with drinks in their hands. Music was blaring from different bars, strip joints, and eateries. There were scantily dressed strippers trying to entice people in, and guys holding signs for cheap drinks pointing toward their bars.

His eyes were huge as he turned towards his dad. If New Orleans is like this, what is New York like? They say it’s the city that never sleeps, but this place is rockin’.

Shawn chuckled at Alessandro’s wide eyes. From what I’ve seen, I think the French Quarter is more worthy of that title.

Alessandro pointed to a balcony. Those guys are asking the girls to show their tits for beads. He grabbed his dad’s arm. They did! We gotta get ourselves some beads.

Shawn lifted an eyebrow. What would your mamma say?

"She wouldn’t say anything. She’d hit me instead. He unconsciously rubbed his head at the precise spot she would cuff him. I heard the guys in the band say, ‘what happens on the road stays on the road,’ right?"

Shawn stopped. Remember, son, secrets have a way of revealing themselves and destroying people. Look beyond the glitz and glamour of this street. Look past that stripper’s body and look at her face. She’s not smiling. Do you think she wants to be mauled by a bunch of pigs just to have enough money to survive? Look at that bachelorette party right there. Those girls are someone’s daughters, and by the looks of it, they aren’t going to make it to their rooms without some trouble tonight.

Alessandro looked at the girls. They were definitely beyond their limit. One’s dress was hiked up too far, and her ass was hanging out. Three were barely able to walk. Drunk girls were carrying their shoes, and there was all kinds of gross shit and broken glass on the ground. No amount of antibiotics would be able to help if they cut their feet.

To the right of them, a guy was sitting on the curb and had pissed himself. A big girl had her top up, begging for beads, but the guys from the balcony were taunting her, saying she wasn’t worth it. A couple of homeless guys were picking through the garbage and eating something they had found. He shivered as he watched.

Turning around, he saw a homeless girl leaning against a wall and holding a sign that read, Need money for my eating addiction. It would have been funny if she wasn’t so skinny he could count her ribs.

Suddenly, it wasn’t so cool. It was sad and pathetic and had him yearning for home.

His dad watched as realization hit him square in the gut. They’re the reason I want to turn Mamma’s B&B into a resort for bachelor and bachelorette getaways. Innocent fun can turn ugly so quickly, and I hate seeing these kids unsafe.

Shawn led his son into a restaurant to grab a bite to eat. After they ordered, he went back to Alessandro’s original statement about what happens on the road.

"You know I’ve been around famous people my whole life. I’ve watched really talented guys lose everything over drugs, alcohol, and groupies. And I’ve seen a lot of them die alone. You have to decide what you want out of life. The fastest track to destruction is not living by the morals you were raised by."

Alessandro rolled his eyes. You’re giving me a lecture on sex, drugs, and rock and roll? He looked affronted.

Shawn changed tactics by making it personal, hoping to shed some light. If I screwed around on Mamma with some groupie because they’re available, how would you feel?

Alessandro angrily looked up from his plate. I’d kill you. Mamma loves you and doesn’t deserve that.

"Exactly. And I love her more than life. I made a commitment to love and only be with her. I don’t want to lose such an incredible woman over a quick, meaningless lay. You do it once on the road, what’s to stop you from doing it the next time, or the next? One thing you have to learn, son, is groupies don’t have sex with you because they like you. They don’t even know you. They’re in love with an image some agent used to market you. They do it so they can brag about how they slept with a member of a band.

"On the road, you meet hundreds of beautiful women. When there’s no emotional connection, they become faceless objects to fill the loneliness, and they’re less fulfilling than your own hand. You have more chances of catching a nasty disease or an unwanted pregnancy. Would you really want a woman who drops her skirt for anyone to be the mother of your child?

"Don’t waste your time with groupies. Beauty fades. Find a girl who’s beautiful on the inside, treat her the way you want to be treated, and you’ll have a great life."

Alessandro finished chewing his food, then replied, Jesus, Dad, did Ma tell you she caught me in the basement trying to get into Hilary Campbell’s pants, and this is my punishment? She already made me tell the priest before going into the confessional booth in front of everyone. Wasn’t that enough?

Shawn howled with laughter. She did not do that.

"Dad, you married a sadist. I think you keep your junk in your pants ’cause you’re scared of her."

Still laughing, Shawn said, No, I keep my junk in my pants because nobody could ever compare to that little hellcat in the sack.

Eighteen-year-old Alessandro stood up, threw his napkin down, and then turned to give his father a dirty look before walking out. Fanculo, you’re as demented as she is. And if you ever talk about my mamma like that again, I’m going to drop you. No guy needs to know he wasn’t an immaculate conception.

It hadn’t been the first time Alessandro had thought about that conversation as he walked down Bourbon Street. His dad had been a man of integrity and honor. He wished he was half the man. Maybe then Marcello would still be alive.

Mr. Daniels had really failed him tonight. All he had gotten from him was a staggering walk. The pain was as strong as ever.

It had gotten a lot colder, and he had to walk around the homeless who congregated closer to keep warm. Thirty-five minutes later, he was crawling into his makeshift home under the concrete pads holding up the Mercedes-Benz Superdome.

He reached up under the steel trusses and pulled his stuff out. He didn’t have much, just a blanket and his knapsack containing two other pairs of jeans, three T-shirts, boxers, socks, a brush, deodorant, toothbrush, and toothpaste. In the front pocket of his knapsack, he had a small flashlight and the book he wrote songs in. The first page contained his handwritten copy of the email Marcello had written. The one that had sent him into the tailspin.

Alessandro opened the book and read the words he had reread every night since he had first seen the email his brother had written on his phone, but never sent.

Marcello’s phone had been lost for over eight months after the massacre, and when it had finally been returned to the famiglia, it hadn’t worked. Sabastian had hidden it so their mamma wouldn’t be reminded of all she had lost, and had then forgotten about it. Alessandro had found the phone when Sabastian had asked him to grab something from his cabin and had taken it in to get repaired.

Eventually, when Alessandro finally picked it up, he had been reminded of why Sabastian didn’t want their mamma to see it. He had sobbed his eyes out in his truck in the parking lot of the mall while looking at the pictures Marcello had on his phone.

A weird but striking young woman had knocked on his window, asking if he needed help. In his embarrassment, he had blown her off. Something about her, though, had haunted him ever since. She had been beautiful at first glance, but she hadn’t smiled, and looked miserable. He had told her so.

Now, every time he saw his reflection in a window or a mirror, he saw the exact same expression on his face. She had been carrying the weight of the world, and it showed.

Alessandro wrapped himself in his blanket and used his knapsack for a pillow as he turned on his flashlight and read the email he had written out and memorized.

Alessandro,

You are a selfish coglione who needs to learn what it means to be part of a famiglia. I had to go to the music festival with Dad because you blew him off for some piece of ass. I hope she was worth it.

In case you forgot, I got the offer to join Ryder’s band, Fornication, because their guitarist is going out on his own to try a solo album.

I wanted to take a couple of weeks off and spend it with Ma and my friends before going to Toronto to practice with them, write the new album, and cut it before the tour. I won’t be able to come home until Christmas, and then I’ll have to be right back. I’ll be gone until probably next Christmas. But I’m sure you don’t care.

When the fuck are you going to grow up and take some responsibility? You can’t go through life like you’re the only one who exists. I’m sick of your happy-go-lucky, joker attitude, the guy who pretends to be everyone’s friend until we need you. Then you’re MIA.

Thanks a lot, fucker.

Marcello

Everything had changed for Alessandro when he had read the unsent draft in Marcello’s cell phone.

For years, Mamma had accused him of not dealing with his feelings after the shooting. But the day he had realized he was responsible for sending his oldest brother to his death was the day he had to walk away.

He contemplated suicide for about five minutes, before he had realized his mamma wouldn’t survive the loss of another child. He was selfish like Marcello had accused him of, but he wasn’t totally heartless. Besides, that would be the easy way out. If he was going to hell for what he had done, he might as well get used to the feelings.

He turned off the flashlight, placed the book against his chest, and sobbed. This was why he needed to get drunk every day to numb the pain. He couldn’t deal with not being able to go back to the past and make things right.

I’m so sorry, Marcello. If I could change places with you, I would. But I can’t, and I don’t know how to fix it. I killed you as sure as the shooter.

The po’ boy and Mr. Daniels were battling it out in his stomach. He was going to be sick.

He struggled out of his blanket and crawled out from under his shelter. After getting up, he ran as far as he could before the contents of his stomach came flying up.

Lowering himself to his knees, he imagined what a pathetic excuse of a human