Chapter Text
Copia has struggled to keep you off his mind since the night of the match. The evening’s events had only confirmed his growing suspicion that there is something seriously amiss with you. It’s easy for him to look back and recognize you’ve always been quiet and detached, yet constantly on guard and prone to bouts of explosive rage. Whatever, or whoever, instilled that in you had exited your life long before you met. What is new is the hate he saw reflected in his bedroom mirror, and the shame in your eyes when you lost. From his experience being Nihil’s son, those are feelings with which Copia is intimately familiar. They’re easy for him to recognize and treat accordingly in others. The rest he’ll have to work on.
He ties not to think about the emptiness in your eyes as you watched Diego bleed out on the cold, dirty concrete. Something tells him that’s out of his wheelhouse.
Copia’s cheek is still tender from where Mary had hit him. For the scrawny creature that he is, the greasy punk can sure pack a punch. As much as he wants to drag him through the streets for it, he really should have seen it coming. Mary is the protective type, and Copia certainly didn’t help himself by neglecting to call or make your whereabouts known until the next morning, returning you to your bother concussed, battered, and zoning in and out of reality. Copia knows he deserved it, at least in part.
“You don’t know anything about her!”
Mary is naive; he doesn’t know half of what goes on in the dark recesses of this city. He hasn’t had to make the painful choices, the sacrifices, that keep this kind of business flowing. But, he’s right. Copia has no idea who, or what, you really are. The notion is starting to eat at him.
Heaving out a sigh, he pulls into Secondo’s driveway. The crunch of the gravel under the car makes him nervous; he’s always convinced there will be glass or nails or something sharp waiting in there to fuck up his tires. He holds his breath as he drives up to the house and parks, slowly letting it out only once he’s certain nothing has popped. Stepping out of the car, he looks up at the blocky, brutalist home, a shock of gray against the blue sky and rich green of the surrounding pines. In a very childish part of his mind it looks like some sort of supervillain lair, an ominous thing ready to swallow up all who dare enter. Considering what business-related activities occasionally go on inside, it’s not a far off comparison.
Copia groans. He’s not as bad as Nihil, but Secondo has always been the runner-up for family hard-ass. It’s a product of their childhood, he thinks. Secondo and Terzo were so close in birth they were raised like twins. As they grew up, someone naturally had to balance out the ambitious, reckless energy of the third brother. While he’s no stranger to debauchery, at his core Secondo is a calculating, exacting man, brutally efficient in everything he does. Seldom does he waste time with pleasantries and fluff.
The garage door begins to lift, the racket startling Copia. As the panels slide upwards more and more of his brother is revealed. First, it’s his shoes, fine Italian leather polished to hell. Then, his slacks, starched and pressed like he’s having tea with the Queen. There’s a clean, white dress shirt and then Copia is looking Secondo in the face. He doesn’t appear as put together as he usually is, something a bit haggard about him. The creases under his eyes are deeper, a dusting of stubble across his jaw. From behind him two men appear, each holding the end of a large mass wrapped in sheets. As they pass by him, carrying the bundle out of the house, Copia instinctively knows that Diego will be resting in peace from now on.
“Come in.” It’s not quite a command, but not an invitation either. Copia would have preferred a “hello.” Sheepishly, he follows as his brother turns and walks briskly to the door separating the garage from the rest of the house. It’s a short journey. As with all of Secondo’s things, the space is staggeringly neat, no boxes of junk colonizing the floor like at his home. He glances over at one of the parked cars, a 55 Coronet, and smiles to himself, remembering when it was new. It had been bright red back then. Secondo’s face had been a similar shade as he sat in the back seat, knuckles white while Primo gave Copia his first driving lesson. With every jerk of the vehicle a new vein appeared on his forehead, Terzo lauging harder and harder until he’d nearly pissed himself. They went to the creek after that, Copia battling nausea from a cigarette, his first, that he’d bummed off his third brother. That had been a good day.
At some point in the 60s, Secondo had the coat changed to black. By the 70s, it had been involved in so many crimes he’d stopped driving it altogether, the plates removed and shredded. Now here it sits, gathering dust, a relic of more innocent times. As Copia crosses the threshold into the house, he finds he’s not smiling anymore.
Despite his home’s harsh exterior, Secondo is a man of taste. A sensualist. His decor reflects that, all dark leather and silk, shelves lined with antiques and souvenirs from his travels. His office, however, is the only room that actually looks lived in. It wouldn’t be a surprise to Copia if he slept in there. There’s very little in the way of mess, but with a trained eye, he easily picks out the hints of disorder that are hidden around the room like Easter eggs: crumpled wads of paper on the floor by the wastebasket, a coffee cup perched precariously on the windowsill, the contents long cold. The decorative pillows on the couch could use a good fluffing, and there’s a quilt, the once colorful fabric faded, folded haphazardly and draped over the back. Maybe he has been sleeping here.
Secondo clears his throat, putting an end to Copia’s scavenger hunt. He looks across the desk at his brother, suddenly feeling like a child again. From the expression on his face it’s clear he’s in for a scolding. Copia holds back a groan, crossing his ankles and tucking them beneath his chair. He’d better get this over with.
“Is this about what happened the other night? I don’t have any details other than-“
“The girl,” Secondo says. “This is about her.” Copia is stunned. For a moment he stares at his brother, blinking, before even trying to open his mouth.
“I-” Suddenly he feels a bit flustered. “What- The fight? I know w- she lost, but…“ His underarms are uncomfortably sweaty. Terzo said he’d work on it. Perhaps he’d been drunk that night after all, the bastard. “What did you think?”
“She is far too attached to you. That is what I think.” Copia is taken even farther aback.
“Excuse me,” he sputters, quirking an eyebrow at his brother. “But I do not understand why that’s any of your business. Do Primo and Terzo’s,” for a moment he’s stuck on what to call you, “associates need your approval now too?”
Secondo rolls his eyes. “This is different,” he insists. “She is different.” Copia can’t meet his brother’s gaze, eyes darting to the window. Outside, a small, gray bird perches on a branch, preening its feathers. It looks up suddenly before taking flight, a blur of brown and white in pursuit. Copia swallows, crossing his arms.
“There is nothing wrong with that, fratello,” he grumbles, not sure how much he can defend you beyond that. He knows what his brother really means. But is this what he called him here for? To critique his choice in women? “And you’ve had your fair share of weird girls-“ He jumps when Secondo bangs a fist on the solid wood of the desk.
“Fucking Christ.” For a moment, there is something unreadable, but deeply frightening, in his eyes. He lets out a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. The tension in the room is palpable, thick like tar and just as foul. Wordlessly, Secondo rises from his seat, shuffling over to a beat-up, old filling cabinet in the corner of the room. Flecked with rust, it is, perhaps, the only common-looking thing he owns. From his pocket he produces a set of keys that clink together as he unlocks one of the drawers. Copia can just barely see that it is full of documents, organized into neat folders. Carefully, he reaches into one of the files and produces what appears to be a newspaper clipping. He looks back and forth between Copia and the paper for a moment, the conflict surprisingly plain on his face. With another heavy exhale Secondo settles back in his chair, placing the slip face-down on the desk. With a look that says “I told you so,” he slides it over. Copia takes a shaky breath, feeling his brother’s eyes bore into him. Leaning slightly forward in his seat, he gingerly turns it over.
He’s confused by what he sees.
The cutting is of a portrait, taken in a department store studio. There are two people in it. One is a man in his early thirties. His face has a gauntness that immediately tells Copia he’s a user, his skin pale and slightly jaundiced. He smiles but his eyes are tired, the creases around them deep and the circles dark. He’s strung out, only just holding himself together for the sake of the little girl next to him. As his eyes drift over to the child, who cannot be older than four or five, Copia feels his blood turn to ice.
Even twenty years younger, the girl in the photo is unmistakably you. He would recognize that face anywhere. Still, it takes a moment for him to fully process exactly what he’s staring at. That smile… You look too innocent, too happy to be, well, you. Whoever this is, she is a copy, a sick fabrication of the person you could have been. It’s just not right. It’s uncanny.
“I don’t…” Copia tugs at the collar of his shirt, finding he’s in desperate need of oxygen. As the pieces begin to click together, a knot of dread settles deep in his stomach. “Why do you have this?” Secondo sits there with his arms crossed, eyes full of more emotion than he has seen from his brother in a long time. There’s anger, pity, and shame there. Copia says nothing; he already has half the answer anyway. “W-what…” Unable to find the words he sighs, letting the breath out slowly. A few strands of hair have fallen in his face and he brushes them back, steeling himself. With a look to his brother that he hopes conveys resolve he straightens in his chair. “Tell me. The whole story.”
Without breaking eye contact, Secondo pushes his readers further up his nose. When that hand comes down the tip of his pointer finger is resting on the forehead of the man in the photograph. “One of ours. Started dealing to pay back some debts. I am not sure who he owed, or for what. I never knew him personally.” There’s a moment of understanding, an unspoken agreement between the two brothers. They don’t know, but they know. It’s too familiar a story, one Copia has heard hundreds of times to the point where he’s sick of it.
And yet, the show goes on. The coffers must always be full.
“He tried to make a deal and it went sour. Nearly got us busted. Fuck, I have never seen Nihil so pissed.” A memory resurfaces: his father, fists still shaking, setting down a pair of bloody brass knuckles on the breakfast table. They never managed to get the stain out of that tablecloth. “The numbers were already suspicious. It did not take us long to find that he had been skimming off the top for his own use. He stole from us, fratellino.” In this line of work, that’s enough to justify almost anything. Secondo glances back down at the photograph. “So we did what had to be done. Those were father’s orders.”
There is a long moment of silence between them. Copia is reeling, still trying to make sense of this devastating information. This can’t be. This has to be some cruel joke. He looks down at his hands. They’re far too clean. A disturbing thought crosses his mind. “She was there?” Secondo shrugs.
“We did not see her.” An even worse thought rears its head.
“If she…” He swallows, not wanting to accuse his brother but needing an answer. “Would you have… You know.”
Secondo shakes his head, gazing out the window. The disgust bleeds through even the most minute shifts of his face. “No. Not for anything. And certainly not for Nihil.” Copia feels his shoulders drop but is still on edge. His brother is never this forthcoming and it’s overwhelming. It’s all too much.
“I see,” he says, feeling a little sick. We made her this way. Before he can stop himself the image of you lying on that old boxing mat, confused and hurt, flashes through his mind. You had told him you were sorry. Whether he wants to laugh or cry at the cruel irony of that he doesn’t know.
This is all my fault.
“Does the old man know?”
“No,” Secondo grunts. “And he never will. But the girl has to go.” Copia is stunned, then enraged.
"I won't let you touch her."
Secondo waves him off. "I meant she should skip town."
“Still, why?” The anger returns to his brother’s face.
“Vengeance, Copia. What would she do if she were to find out the truth? She may already know. For all we know, she could be feeding information to the Giordanos as we speak. That would certainly explain why all our fucking product is going missing.” The insinuation lights a spark inside of Copia.
“You think I don’t know the people who work for me? That I share Family secrets for pillow talk?” He scoffs, crossing his arms. “I haven’t told her anything about the business. She is innocent in all of this.”
“Then all the more reason why she must go. You will get her killed, if she does not kill you first.” Logically, Copia knows he’s right, but the implication that he can’t protect himself, that he’s become your unwitting fool, just makes him feel like a child. If he had wanted that, he would have gone to Nihil. And there’s another, deeper part of him that knows he can’t abandon you now. Not after what his family — what he — has done to you. His heart aches at the thought, despair beginning to take root. He has to make this right, but how? How do you even begin to repair damage like that? It seems like an impossible task.
“Why would you tell me this,” he mutters, still staring at the beaming little girl in the photograph. He can’t recall ever seeing you smile. Have you even felt happiness since that day?
“Because we are family. I have an obligation to protect you.”
Copia grunts, angry and sad and ashamed. He glares up at his brother. “When has that ever mattered?” Secondo furrows his eyebrows.
“It has always mattered.”
For a moment, Copia forgets himself. “Where was that rhetoric when Terzo-“ He stops, pressing his lips together. Across from him, Secondo sits silently, but there is the faintest trace of hurt in his eyes. Copia wants nothing more than to curl up and vanish, to turn into a little bug and crawl away. “I’m sorry, I-“
“That is all I had to say,” Secondo states, unwavering. “I strongly suggest you take my advice. You can be on your way.” Copia knows it’s not a suggestion. Nodding, he rises from his chair. Secondo stays seated, skimming over one of the papers littering his desk, no longer paying him any mind. He doesn’t bother saying goodbye, mind racing as he sees himself out of the house.
When Copia gets back in his car he sits there a while, his head in his hands.