Nuncio Veronese’s Funeral, BostonBelonging ? N?velDram/a.Org.


    (Zahara, age 18; Massimo, age 35)


    Just you, Nera.


    Massimo’s words ring in my head as I hurry along the dirt path toward the parking lot. My vision is so blurred by tears that I can barely see where I’m stepping. I lift my arm and brush the wetness away with my sleeve.


    That bastard.


    “Zara! Wait!” my sister calls after me.


    I quicken my pace. I’m in no shape to talk with her now. The only thing I want to do is curl up in a dark corner and cry in peace.


    When he made his approach toward Nera and me, my heart was beating so rapidly that I was afraid I was going to have a heart attack. In a way, I’ve always perceived Massimo as somewhat unreal. Untouchable. Out of reach. Seeing him here, in front of me, as a real flesh-and-blood entity, almost made me faint. And my stupid heart sang with joy.


    Until he crushed it with one simple sentence.


    Just you, Nera.


    I have no idea what he wants to discuss with my sister. Maybe he wants toy a im to our family’s properties. That would fit with his cunning methods.


    I don’t fucking care.


    He already imed the only thing I care about. My heart.


    And he squashed it.