The Don's Doctor

Desecration

Vincent's POV

When my father had reached his fortieth year, we had spent more of our profits on establishing charitable institutions than we had on our more shady businesses. To acknowledge these acts of generosity, our local church had placed a plaque with both my parents’ names inscribed on the wall outside where the congregation would enter, and it had held pride of place there for at least a decade. Vivid images of my father cutting the ribbon manifested in my mind, even snippets of the priest’s speech echoed through. I was a teenager at the time, but knowing that people thought my parents were the ‘epitome of Christian example’ and that they were a ‘reminder of the difference that a few could have on the many still made me as proud now as it did then. Therefore, I am standing in an icy, dazed, turmoil of anguish while looking at the memorial that was in front of me now. Desecrated in such a way, that the intention to cause pain to my family was obvious. It is beyond my concept of petty revenge. Scratches had been raked through their names, faeces had been smeared across the granite, and the words ‘liar’ had been crudely carved into the wood.

“There’s more...” Father Leo says gravely, gesturing me to the back of the church where the graveyard was.

I don’t want to follow him, but I know I have to. This was done as a message, and unfortunately I have to read all of it. Renzo seems agitated as he walks behind me, looking at the floor where red blotches of spray paint had dripped along the path during the getaway. Darkly, I wonder if it was the result of my own bleeding heart, but I know that my heart suffers silently, pain like this has to be endured from within. When Renzo has finished seeing the final message, I am sure he will follow the trail like a possessed blood hound from hell itself to find the culprits. Once again, the sight was worse than I had anticipated.

When Father Leo had called me in the morning, I had assumed that the church bell needed some maintenance, and he was asking for some financial help. I would have been happy to foot the bill for any care that was needed in the church where my parents were married, but the nature of the call had been far more costly.

On my parents’ headstones were childish, graphic images of cartoon phalluses and explosions, the word ‘w***e’ had been written beneath my mother’s name and ‘devil’ had been written beneath my father’s. I had taken Barone’s businesses in a way he was unable to equal in terms of detrimental impact, so he had found a more personal route to exact his vengeance and retaliate. He had violated the memory of my parents.

Renzo must have headed inside the church while I am assessing the damage, because his appearance interrupts my thought process. He has filled a bucket with soapy water and is scrubbing at the graffiti with a hard bristle brush.

“There’s no point, son. That was the first thing I tried this morning, it won’t come off.” Father Leo admits, but Renzo is too lost in his need to make it better.

Realising that his efforts were having no impact, he starts to punch the headstones until his knuckles bleed the same colour as the spray paint.

“Father, please bring us a sledgehammer.’ I instruct, without looking at him.

Placing my hand on Renzo’s shoulder, I wait for his trembling to stop. It is rare that Renzo has outbursts of rage, but I know the only thing we can do is wait for him to expel his anger, or divert his attention onto someone who deserves his fury.

“I’m sorry, I know they are your parents…”

“Don’t be sorry, Renzo. They loved you like a son, and I love you like a brother. Barone will suffer for this!” I answer him, and I wish that I, too, could find an output for my rage, but for now, the crueler side of me is constructing a plan.

The sledgehammer arrives, and I admire the weight of it, before slamming it across my mother’s headstone. The crack spreads across it, as if Pluto is about to crawl out of the grave, but still I hit the stone, until there is nothing left. Handing Renzo the instrument of destruction, I watch my brother in all but blood do the same to my father’s grave.

“What will you do?” Father Renzo asks me.

“Things you don’t want to know about.” I answer honestly, because what will happen next is too unpalatable even for my notion of revenge. “A new plaque will be here by the end of the week, place the new one inside the church, and cover the old one up for now.” I instruct him.

Many have called me insane since I was forced to take over my family’s dealings. More often than not, it is an over-exaggeration. Occasionally, like today, it is the most apt description of me. Leaders who are loved will always have loyalty, but leaders who are feared will always have obedience. It is the latter that I need going forward. I make the call to Luca with no guilt.

“Luca, I need my parents to be exhumed and reburied on our estate at home, and I need it done by the end of the day. Tomorrow, do the same to Barone’s parents. Do what you want with their bodies. Just don’t tell me, because I don’t want to reveal it if they ever catch me. Just make sure that wherever you put them, they are never found again, and don’t refill the holes. I want them to know what we did.” I order, and the line goes dead, while he acts on my instructions.

I’m so angry that it is worth the risk of being overheard.

Renzo returns with a red spray can in his leather-gloved hands. I know he wants us to have it checked for fingerprints, but it’s a futile endeavour. I know that it will only lead us to some poor kid that can’t say no to the money. Besides, we will have to call in a few favours from our associates in the police and politicians we have on roll after the events of today go through. I explain my plan to Renzo as we walk away from my parents’ temporary resting place, and he slams the empty can in the dumpster by the time we reach the front doors, agreeing that the thirst for vengeance will be satisfied with my design for Barone’s due.

“Vincent, can I speak with you a moment?” Father Leo calls.

Reluctantly, I stop, preparing to give him a few minutes of my time. After the explosion that killed them, the priest had called me every Sunday at two o’clock in the afternoon, asking if I was OK, and trying to convince me to come to the Sunday service, the ones I had never missed when my parents had been alive. Eventually, I stopped answering the phone when I recognised his number, and he gave up accepting I was a lost sheep.

“I’m sorry for the disruption that will happen this afternoon. I have to keep my parents safe. I’m sure you understand.” I apologise, even though I don’t really care about any inconvenience it causes.

“I’m concerned about you, my child. You have lost your way. If you have time, I can take your confession. The church is always here for you, Vincent.” He offers. I look past him to the pews that face the crucifixion.

“I cannot forgive, or be forgiven right now, father. Forgiveness is weakness, and if I am weak my family will fall.” I answer, convinced about my own convictions.

“You should do something to tip the balance against your sins. That’s what your father did. He never saw himself as a good man. His aim was to be legal by the time you inherited his role, the good he did eased his guilt, and you can be a conduit for people’s joy.” He answers.

Immediately, I think of Chiara. We had been doing her sessions with me for two weeks now, and for the most part, the impact is significant, but mostly, learning about her was the greatest balm to my uneasy soul. After all, the mist hadn’t dictated my actions today, and I couldn’t have said that last month. I have kept her safe for all this time, and will continue to do so. Since she had appeared in my life, I had discontinued the practice of having anyone under the age of twenty working for us. I had paid for the remaining children of the families who had lost sons in our battle against Barone to be privately educated. These are small steps, and the priest is right: it isn’t enough.

“I am doing good things, father, but I will strive to do more.”