For a moment I thought it was him, despite all the odds.
An unwanted memory washes over me in the driver’s seat—that dreaded Thanksgiving night. The frown grows. It needs to be flipped upside down by the time I reach the office, this is supposed to be a happy day, yet I give myself the time to bottle away every last thought I have of my Pietro Giannotti.
“Pour yourself another glass,” my father hisses, the wine bottle slamming against the oak dining table in a vibrating thud and missing my plate by inches.
I speak the first words since entering this house two hours ago. “No, I’m okay.”
“Pour it.”
“My glass is still full.”
My father takes one good look at me and chuckles coldly. Cocking his head, his gaze averts to Marcus on the other side of the table. “Can you believe this bastard of your brother? He thinks that I…” he scoffs and turns to me with a screwed up face of vengeance. “You think I put something in the wine? Huh? You think I’m fucking with you, is that it?”
I stay silent and turn my gaze back to the television. They’re doing a Thanksgiving special on some channel I don’t care about. I shouldn’t have come. I don’t know why I thought for the slightest second it was a good idea to travel back to New Jersey this Thanksgiving with hope that my father has changed. It’s only us three men as Clare is at the hospital working. It’s the first time I’ve seen my father in three years and the bitter man hasn’t changed a bit.
“HEY! I’m talking to you!”
“I never insinuated you put anything in it; I just don’t want another drink.”
“You don’t want another drink?”
“No.”
At the head of the table, Pietro Giannotti scoffs and grips the neck of the bottle. “Sure you don’t want it in your mouth? Cause it’ll be smashed on the side of your head in a minute. POUR IT!”
Clenching my jaw, I down the wine in my glass, snatch the bottle, and pour myself another one. I down the second one in a flash and turn to Pietro with a pointed expression. “Happy?”
“You think you’re a big shot now, huh? You think you can move to Seattle and study to be a worthless architect? You won’t ever fucking make it, Giulio. Always dreaming too hard just like that darn mother of yours used to. CEO of my ass. You worthless weak shit.”
I wish I could say he’s even the slightest bit drunk. Nope. This is how it is.
Adjacent to me, twelve-year-old Marcus smirks with challenge. “You don’t have what it takes.”
“Exactly. At least you understand, Marcus.” My father pours himself the last of what’s in the bottle. “The most Giulio is set out to do is walk out of this front door alive.”
“That’s it, I’ve had enough. I didn’t come all the way here just to hear you go on and on again. I was hoping for some type of apology, but I should have known you haven’t changed.” The wooden chair squeaks as I push back, scratching a stream of white lines onto the chestnut floorboards. I pat down the lapels of my blazer and take my leave for the front door. “A Dio.”
I don’t make it three steps before I’m slammed against the wall.
My father’s musky scent traps me between the reality I’m facing and my past. I’m twenty-one, but the days after my mother’s death are vivid reminders of the day Pietro Giannotti stopped being my father.
“You wanted an apology?” He grips my blazer, his curled fists inches from my face. “Weak boy, I’m not sorry for a damn thing I’ve done to you or your mother. What you gonna do about it, huh?”
I’m not that kid anymore. I don’t submit to his torment, which is why I push myself away from the wall, grip his collar, and violently slam him against the opposite side of the hallway. My father’s head hits a picture frame and it slides down the dark navy walls from the force until I hear the crunch of glass beneath my feet.
“What fucking photo was that?” My father growls, jerking his body towards mine but I have the upper hand and slam him back again.
“Don’t know.” I bite back in fury. “Perhaps one of you and your beloved Clare. Wouldn’t be one of Mom, would it now? I will never forgive you for what you did behind her back and mine. You’re a selfish freak.”
“Oh, so I’m a selfish freak now?”
“Yes, and that’s sugar coating it. You were with another woman while my mother was dying. I was a fool for believing you had changed. Spending this Thanksgiving with you is a joke to humanity. You, Pietro Giannotti, are a joke to humanity.”
His jaw tenses, that five o’clock shadow reminding me very much of my own. I’m grateful that’s where it stops and I more resemble my mother. I wouldn’t know how I would be able to look in a mirror every day and see him in me.
“You think Clare’s the only one?”
My jaw ticks and I fist his collar tighter, constricting his breaths as I hiss, “she better be.”
My father laughs in my face like this is some type of joke; the cackle shoots straight to my heart. “Oh weak boy, when are you going to learn that no man ever stops at one? There’s always more. Always. Before Clare…and even now. At least Clare gets it.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Or maybe you should be for being the worthless piece in our lives…” Marcus’ words have me look to my left. He’s standing by the end of the hallway, simply watching.
“You stay out of it.”
“Can’t. I fit the family perfectly. You’re the one that doesn’t…remember?”
All the bottled up rage spirals inside me. I decide this is the last time they get to treat me like this—the very last time. I let go of my father’s shirt and pivot to my half-brother.
