Zommunist Invasion by Picott, Camille (ebook reader ink TXT) 📗

urge to cry. “Why would God put a girl in a boy’s body? It doesn’t make any sense.”

Silence stretched. He hunched his shoulders, feeling stupid. He sounded whiny. Nonna’s brother was dead, presumably for being like Stephenson, though Nonna hadn’t said that outright. It was her silence on the subject that made him suspect he’d been killed for being different.

“Do you want to know what I really think?” she asked.

“Yes. Tell me, please.” He scrunched his eyes shut, bracing himself for what she might say.

She shocked him by laying a gentle hand on his cheek. With a soft pressure of her fingers, she forced him to look at her. “I think God sent you here to show the rest of us what it truly means to be brave. If you choose to accept His assignment.”

Her eyes took in all of him, from head to toe: from his thick glasses, to his black mesh top, to his tapered Jordache jeans, to his pink Converse. She saw it all, and she smiled at him.

And even though Stephenson was resolved not to fall apart, he burst into tears.

Nonna, the first person to have ever seen him for the person he was, put an arm around his shoulders and let him cry.

39

Attack

“Valé, what are you doing out here?”

Marcello came around the side of the shed. He smelled of man sweat, melted snow, and earth. His handsome face was smudged with dirt.

Uneasiness made her want to bolt like a rabbit. Valentina forced herself to hold her ground. Marcello was nearly twice her size and definitely twice as strong. He could squash her like a bug and blame it on Mussolini’s fascists. No one would know any better.

“Valé?”

She stared at him, refusing to be the first to speak. If he tried to grab her, she would scream so loud God and Jesus and all the holy angels in heaven would hear her.

Silence stretched. Marcello swallowed. A hint of uneasiness crept into his eyes. His mouth hardened as he stared at her.

“You knew.” The accusation in his voice was like a slap in the face. “You knew what your brother was.”

What your brother was. Her hackles went up. She glared at him, feeling less afraid with every passing second.

“I saw it in your face,” Marcello said. “You weren’t surprised when you saw his face painted like a whore’s.”

She squeezed her hands into fists. “You take that back,” she hissed.

His eyes narrowed. “Why should I? It’s true.”

“You take that back, Marcello Trione.”

“No.” He took a menacing step in her direction.

Fear beat in her chest. She dug her heels into the earth and refused to budge. “Murderer,” she whispered.

“I just wanted him to clean his face but he kept telling me to get away. I pushed him and he—he fell on the rake. It wasn’t my fault.”

“You said one of Mussolini’s fascists killed him.”

He took another step in her direction. “I saved Luca from the Nazis. Do you have any idea what the Germans do to people like him? I saved him from a fate worse than death. They would have discovered his secret as soon as he stepped on the battlefield.”

She could hardly believe what she was hearing. “You didn’t save Luca. You killed him!”

“No, you killed him.”

Marcello’s words went straight to her heart. Without meaning to, she took a step back. Her elder cousin advanced on her.

“You kept his secret. You should have told someone. We could have gotten him help.”

“Help?” She was incredulous. “What sort of help?”

“Father Esposito would have known what to do. This is all your fault, Valé. It wouldn’t have come to this if you hadn’t kept his secret. What was I supposed to think when I saw him like that? It broke my heart, Valé. All I wanted to do was help him, but Luca—Luca didn’t want my help. You should have helped him. It was your duty as his sister. We could have fixed him if only you’d said something.”

Valentina’s world tilted dangerously. It was suddenly very hard to breathe. She bent over her knees, sucking in great lungfuls of cold air.

Was Marcello right? Was Luca’s blood on her hands? Had she really killed him by keeping his secret?

“He—he said war would make him into a man. He was supposed to go to war.”

Marcello crouched down in front of her so they were eye level. She wasn’t sure if she was more terrified of her cousin or of the role she’d played in Luca’s death.

“I’ll keep your secret, Valé, so long as you don’t force my hand. Luca will be remembered as a hero. A village boy killed by one of Mussolini’s fascists. That’s a better fate than he could have hoped for. He was sick, Valé. A sick man. He would have brought shame to himself and the family. I saved our family from the shame that would have been brought to our name.”

Valentina was confused. Marcello talked circles around her.

Could he be right? Could it be her fault that Luca was dead? The uncertainty left her feeling small and full of shame.

Marcello straightened, once again towering over her. “Don’t force my hand, Valé. Let Luca be remembered as a hero.”

He left her there, shivering and alone, in the snow.

Stephenson didn’t know it, but Nonna held onto him like a lifeline.

She’d helped Marcello cover up Luca’s murder. Her entire life had been compiled around one big lie.

By the time she was old enough to realize how he’d manipulated her, Luca was a village hero. She could never bring herself to smash the perfect pedestal her parents had built for her beloved big brother.

She was seventeen when Giuseppe asked her to marry him. It was a year after the war ended. Giuseppe was five years older. He was from the family of a wealthy merchant. His father had given him the money to immigrate and start a life in America.

Had she been in love with Giuseppe? No. But the call of a life in a new country