Toni
My driveway is a sea of screaming, blaring vehicles.
Looks like the Piccolos all finally got back from the funeral, and they are not happy.
They’re yelling at the paramedics, barring their way.
As I walk up, a red-faced paramedic demands, “Are you Toni Piccolo?”
“Yes, we need you inside,” I say, “Several men have been hurt, shot. They’re in a room in the basement. I’ll join you there in a minute.”
Even as the other paramedics rush past, Oma is bellowing protests, “A mistake, there has to be a mistake! The Piccolos are a good family! There can’t be men shot inside!”
Taking her wrinkled hand in my own, I lean in to her, speak softly to her, “Oma, it’s okay. There’s been an accident, but it’s fine now. It’s all going to be fine now.”
She falls silent, gives her head a sort of wobble-nod.
I lead her and, with a gesture of my arm, the rest of my family into the house, into the living room.
As they sit down, I go down to the basement, where the paramedics are waiting. Before they have time to voice their unimpressed looks, I shove the armchair over then gesture to the newly revealed flap door.
“They’re in there.”
The paramedics shoot me some wary looks, and I nod, say, “Just through the flap. There was an accident.”
The angriest-looking paramedic, the one who I spoke to outside, crouches down, peers his head in and inhales sharply.
Poking his head out, he nods to the others.
“Three men, all shot but alive. Like she said.”
I head back to the stairs.
“Sorry, I have to go talk with my family,” I tell him, “I’ll be in the living room at the end of the hallway if you need anything.”
Then I return upstairs, head for the living room from which murmurs of dissent are audible even down the hallway.
Around the corner, still out of sight, I stop.
Inhale, then exhale.
This isn’t going to be easy.
My family has been drifting apart for a while now. The only time I’ve really been seeing Oma and Opa has been for Christmas and Easter, and yet, this may be what breaks us apart for good.
I shake my head.
I can’t be responsible for the ultimate splitting up of my family.
I glance up, find myself face to face with a picture of Guillaume Piccolo, the original Italian who came from Italy, settled down here and made a massive success of himself.
He’s looking at me under derisive eyebrows, and I swallow.
I can do this. I have to.
Inside, everyone is sitting down, on the couches, on the floor – my whole room is a veritable Piccolo family reunion.
I stand at the front and take them in: my beloved, terrifying family.
On the couch to my left are Oma and Opa, their hands a wrinkled clasp; on the couch to my right and the floor is the mass of my cousins, all with similar hairstyles and irritated expressions; and then, sitting on a lone chair from the kitchen, tucked in the back, is my uncle, his bald head tilted in perplexity already.
I look at them, my skeptical, already-unimpressed family.
What if they don’t accept what I’m about to say? What if this doesn’t work?
I inhale, then exhale, then speak, “My family, forgive me. Today is a sad day. A day we were to honor the passing of my father. But recent events have thrown things into conflict and this has to be addressed now.”
I pause, walk over to the entrance, glance down the hallway at the picture of Guillaume Piccolo for inspiration. For anything. But he just glares back at me as surly as ever, indicating what I knew already: there is no right time for this, no right way to break the truth to my family – there’s only now, telling them the best way I know how.
I walk back to the front of the room and continue, “Earlier today, while you were at Papa’s funeral, the Piccolo family property was attacked by the Rebel Saints, a motorcycle gang we have been in conflict with for years. They blew up our two compounds, although I don’t think anyone was hurt in the blasts. After that, however, Carlos tried to have me shipped off.”
My family gawks at me, all their faces with the same question, the same, “Why?”
“Why?” I say. “Because, as some of you know, and others may not, for some time the Piccolos have been running an illegal business.”
I pause, scanning their mystified faces.
Clearly, I’m going to have to be more specific.
“We have been running a sex trafficking business,” I say, and the room explodes into sound.
Angry murmurs turn into enraged shouts.
Oma springs upright, “No, not my family! Not the Piccolos!”
I shake my head, hang it.
“Yes Oma, I’m sorry.”
At this, the room goes silent, and I continue, “I didn’t find out the truth until I was made head of the Piccolo family business when Papa got ill. I don’t want this to make you think any less of him. He was doing what he thought he had to in order to succeed. For me, however, shortly after finding out, I knew I had to change things. Or at least try. Carlos didn’t agree, and today he locked me up, planned to have me sent out with the latest shipment.”
At the sound of footsteps, I look over to the hallway to see the paramedics with Carlos on a stretcher.
The room is still deadly quiet, while everyone’s attention is rooted on me.
“I didn’t tell you all this to have you blacklist Carlos,” I say, “I told you this because this family has had too many secrets for too long. And, more than that, I’m telling you because I’d like your help. I’m taking the business legitimate, and I’d like all the help that I can get.”
Now the silence is terrifying, and the looks on their faces equally so -
they look like they are the ones shot. Gazing everywhere with glassy expressions, my family says nothing.
In a small voice, I ask, “So... what do you say?”
The silence is something of an answer in itself. Head hung, I turn away, prepare to slink off.
“Hell yes, is what we say,” a familiar old voice says.
I turn around to see Oma on her feet, her eyes fiery. A second later, Opa is nodding his agreement, standing up beside her.
“It’s official: you’re all nuts,” my uncle mutters with a sigh, standing up himself.
“Alright, okay,” my cousin that I’m pretty sure is named Muna says.
Next thing I know the whole room is erupting into a collective murmur of agreement, rising, flocking to me, my family, taking me in their arms.
I bury my head into someone’s shoulder, let the tears fall down. Now, these tears are of an entirely different sort. Now, finally, everything is alright.