Chapter Twenty-One

Rossi

Eighteen months later… January 2003

Rossi’s eyes burned with more than tiredness.

He rubbed a thumb over the photo Stefano had taken of them during their July Christmas dinner. It was housed in plastic to keep it safe. Stefano had given him a cell phone as well, and that sucker had cost the man four hundred dollars. He still couldn’t get over Stefano’s generosity. Deployed right now, his cell phone was locked up—there was no way in hell they were allowed to carry a phone.

Leaving Stefano was becoming harder and harder, but he had an obligation to his Special Forces unit.

After the bombing of the World Trade Center, his unit had been deployed to Iraq.

Tasked with some heavy infiltration, it was going to take every one of them to be fully focused to accomplish finding and killing the terrorists involved in the attack on US soil.

And come hell or high water, they would get the job done.

“Staff Sergeant?”

“Yes, I’m coming.” He tucked the photo away and moved to the door. He’d finally gotten his bachelor’s degree by burning the candle at both ends and had made Staff Sergeant E-6 at the age of thirty.

He jammed on his helmet before he stepped out in the driving Iraqi heat. It would be another six months before he got offered any further leave time, and it was a big if any of them would get it. Right then, military leave was frozen.

“You have a call,” the soldier said, hurrying to catch up.

Rossi’s heart threatened to come up and out of his throat. The only one who knew he was there was Stefano.

“Where?”

“It came over the unit phone, sir.”

Rossi jogged across the dusty base to another soldier waving the satellite phone at him.

“Giovani Rossi?” a stranger asked.

“Yes?” He frowned.

“This is Mia’s husband, Ricky Stevenson.”

What the hell? Why was Mia’s husband calling him?

“I’m sorry to tell you…but Mia and Noah were killed in a house fire.” The man continued to talk about some stupid faulty wiring, but Rossi barely heard him through the sudden white noise filling his ears.

Clutching the phone, Rossi walked woodenly across the tent and sat on the nearest chair. Seeing him upset, the other soldiers left and closed the flap to give him privacy.

“I want proof,” he rasped into the satellite phone.

Stevenson must be mistaken. It was the only thing Rossi could grasp onto that made any sense.

He gave Stevenson his email and then walked to the shared computers and logged in. He sank into the chair when the photos loaded on the screen. Shots of the house and two charred bodies. The only thing he could see was Mia’s long blonde hair with a smaller body curled next to her.

Noah had been eleven.

“Who’s the detective on the scene?” he said numbly.

“Hang on.”

A rustling sounded over the phone.

“This is Sheriff Taylor,” the man said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“You ID’d them?”

“We did, sir. I’ll email you a copy of your son’s death certificate as soon as I get it filled out,” Taylor said. When Rossi didn’t say anything, the sheriff handed back the phone to Stevenson.

Rossi gripped the phone tightly in one hand, hugged his rifle in the other, and rocked slightly in the chair.

“I’ll bury them,” Stevenson’s voice came roughly over the phone, and he heard the man sniffle.

Rossi felt like a hole had been ripped out of his chest for a son he’d never gotten the chance to know. He couldn’t imagine the pain Stevenson must be going through.

“Thank you.”

Hanging up the phone, Rossi stared into space. The back of his throat ached and his eyes burned. No more pictures of Noah would be coming, no more dreams of one day meeting the boy who shared his blood. To hell with dreams, nothing ever came from dreaming. A weight settled in his chest and he pulled a hand down his face. Shoving to his feet, he walked out of the tent and handed the radio phone back to the soldier.

Gripping his M16, he jogged across the distance toward his unit and did the only thing he could at that moment in time.

He stuffed his feelings into a box and put everything he had into fighting the war while he mourned for the son he would never meet.