Roman

Iwatched Mercutio's funeral from afar, cowering behind an old oak tree. It was held at the small Catholic church that Nonna went to every Sunday, the Church of St. Michael. She used to make Mercutio and me go with her when we were boys. As we got older it became harder for us to sit still long enough for her to wrangle us into our Sunday best.

The small chapel on the grounds was unassuming, a simple rectangular design with a copper bell hanging from the bell tower. The tombstones here were like small, simple, mismatched teeth across a threadbare lawn, Mercutio's grave sitting open and fresh like a cavity.

I should be the one in the ground. What kind of person did it make me to take happiness from being alive when he was dead? What kind of person did it make me to take shelter in the arms of the woman I loved when the ones he loved paled with his loss? I would return to Julianna and Nonna would return to an empty house.

There was a cluster of mourners around his gravesite. Nonna was among them, her soft, trembling body shaking with grief. She cried as the priest spoke. She wailed as the coffin was lowered into the cold ground.

I wanted to go to her. To wrap my arms around her shaking shoulders. I wanted to howl alongside her and beat my fists at the ground. I wanted to throw my wretched self at her feet and beg for her forgiveness, forgiveness I didn't deserve.

But I couldn't. I didn't want to cause her any more pain than I already had. I stayed where I was, letting this hurricane wreck the insides of me.

If only I could turn back time, Nonna. I'd have gladly taken that bullet meant for me. He shouldn't have tried to save me, damn him, but he was just too good a man to let me die. He was too good for this world so the angels took him. He belonged with them now.

When it was all over Nonna collapsed in her exhausted state, moaning, held up by her friends and neighbors that I'd met over the years. The crowd dispersed, one by one, like black chess pieces off a board. Then there was no one left except Mercutio, lying alone in the cold, cold dirt.

I remained frozen in my hiding spot.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a figure walking towards the grave from between the headstones. A man in a gray suit with a cane in one hand. I squinted through the light, misty rain that had begun to fall. I knew that walk, that swagger.

That was Mercutio's father. Tito Brevio.

Goldfish.

I was told once by my father that the Chinese have the same character for crisis and opportunity. I don't think I'd truly understood why until now. My grief fell below the surface as this opportunity rose like an oil slick. I would find out who Goldfish was working for. I was no longer helpless and aimless. I grabbed this reprieve from sorrow and ran with it.

I snuck up behind him, ducking from gravestone to gravestone as silently as I could, as Goldfish came to stand at the base of Mercutio's grave.

"Ah, son," I heard Goldfish say, his deep voice weighed down by what sounded like pity. "You were such a good boy. Such a good boy. You still ended up here."

I grabbed Tito's shoulder and swung the man around. His cane came for me. I ducked aside, grabbed his wrist and spun him around with his arm twisted around his back. He let out a small wail and dropped his cane into the damp grass.

"Mr. Brevio," I said in a low voice. "It's been a long time."

Goldfish flinched. He looked over his shoulder at me, his graying eyebrows drawing together when he recognized me. "Roman Tyrell," he spat out my name like it was bitter. "What do you want?"

"I just want to talk."

"Yeah? Well I don't talk well when I'm being held against my will."

I leaned in to Tito's ear. "Try to run and I'll blow your kneecaps off."

"I don't doubt it, son."

I let go of him and he scrambled to get some distance from me. He cleared his throat, composing himself as he brushed down his suit and straightened his silver tie. "I heard you were back."

I picked up his fallen cane. He held out his hand for it.

I flicked the head of the cane. A blade came out of the end. I raised an eyebrow at him. "I think I'll hang on to this until you've answered my question." I flicked his weapon closed and gripped it in my left hand.

Goldfish gave the cane one more yearnful glance before focusing on me. "What question would that be?"

"Who hired you to kidnap Julianna Capulet?"

"That lovely young detective?" He raised an eyebrow. "Someone tried to kidnap her, did they?"

"Don't play dumb with me."

"Even if I did know, why do you care what happens to Detective Capulet?" There was a glint in his eye as he spoke. He knew something.

"That's none of your business. Now answer the question." I pulled the pistol from inside my jacket and pointed it at him. "Or they'll be digging a second grave next to Mercutio's."

He eyed me over, his eyes stopping briefly at the gun. "You're asking a dangerous thing, boy."

"I'm not a boy anymore."

Goldfish let out a puff of air. "No, you are not. You grew up into a man. Just like your father," he added with a cruel twist to his lips.

"I'm nothing like him."

Goldfish's lip twitched. His gaze felt as heavy as a fallen pillar. "Of course not." He glanced down at the freshly covered grave, a mound of dirt and a new headstone marking the final resting place of his son and my best friend. He let out a sigh. "He grew up too. He grew up into a good man."

"The best," I agreed, swallowing around an acorn in my throat.

"And yet…here he lies. Gone too soon."

I studied Goldfish's face, an older version of Mercutio's, and felt a stab of sadness. Merc would never grow old enough to look like his father did now.

"I was never a good father to him," Goldfish said, so quietly I barely heard it.

"No, you weren't."

His eyes snapped up to meet mine, a tension to his jaw. "I did the best I could for him, which was to stay away. It was more than you did." His words were barbed, but the wounds I had already inflicted on myself were so raw that nothing more could be said to hurt me. "You want to know who ordered the capture of your little girlfriend?"

"Yes."

"Consider this a funeral gift. Because Mercutio would have wanted it."

"Who?"

"Ask your father."

My father.The shock snapped at me and yet it didn't. It already echoed something I knew deep down but was too afraid to admit. "You're lying."

"Why would I lie?"

"Because you've never liked me. Because you're covering for the person you're really working for."

"You want proof?"

Did I? I nodded, slowly.

"$7,275, Nemo's Furniture Removals, the thirtieth of August."

"What's that supposed to be?"

"It's how much the contract was, who it was paid to and the date it was paid. Find the corresponding payment on your father's bank statement, you have your proof. Now," he held out a hand, "may I have my cane back?" I threw the cane to him and he caught it. "I'll tell you one more thing before I go, shall I?"

I nodded.

"The contract is still open." He saluted me with his cane, then turned to walk away. "Happy fishing."

The contract is still open.

My blood turned to ice. They were still after Julianna.