Being Moretti

         Sonny Moretti stood on the balcony of his office and stared out over the Las Vegas strip. The glow of neon lights burning against the black desert sky was a view that he'd grown to love, but tonight it was the furthest thing from his thoughts. He brought the tear-stained letter to his face and wept for a long while. Crying was nothing new to Sonny. Throughout his thirty nine years, his emotions often prevailed over self-control, though never in the presence of another person. After all, being a Moretti, Sonny had a certain persona to maintain.

         After Sonny's mother abandoned him when he was eleven, his father demanded there would be no more tears—that it was time to grow up and act like a Moretti. Not only did Antonio Moretti of the Las Vegas Mafia command obedience, but what he said was NOT open for discussion. Often, Sonny wore the bruises to prove it too. So, a year later, when his father sent him to Southland Boarding School in England, Sonny never shed a tear. He was relieved to escape the Moretti tyranny, if only just temporarily.

         Exhausted from his most recent gush of tears, Sonny carried the letter to his desk, poured himself another glass of Rémy Martin and gulped it down. Being one of the Moretti clan not only afforded him the finest cognac, it afforded him the finest of most anything as long as the family approved it. This included his spacious office suite on the top floor of Club Ritz, a Vegas hot spot owned by the Moretti family. He sat, lit a cigarette and re-read the fateful words, written in such delicate hand, for perhaps the hundredth time.

Ma Chérie,
I have found it so very difficult to go on without you. I know its been just as agonizing for you, knowing our love can never be. When you left, my heart was torn from me and I can never be whole until we are together again. By the time you receive this note, I will have taken my life. Just know, Chérie, we can be united in death whenever you choose to finish what I have begun. xoxoxo ~ JN

         Sonny sat on the edge of his chair, crushed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and poured another drink. Then retrieving a pill bottle from a desk drawer, he popped several Valium and washed them down with the Rémy. Just a peek, he thought to himself, all I need is a tiny peek of the other side just to be sure. He leaned back with a heavy sigh, shut his eyes and let his head float between this world and his haunted past until a knock at the door brought him back to reality.

         "Sonny, are you in there? Sonny? It's Marco."

         Sonny ignored his younger cousin hoping he would go away without confrontation.

         After the murder of his father while he was still in England attending college, Sonny's extended Moretti family had opened their arms to him. Marco had since become like a brother and Uncle Johnny—like a father. Sonny's inheritance and future had been placed in the capable hands of his father's brother, Johnny Moretti. The same Johnny Moretti who ran the "family business" and tended to such family matters as the unfortunate demise of the thug who killed Sonny's father. As usual, where the Morettis are concerned, the local authorities seem to always be looking the other way.

         When Sonny returned to Las Vegas after graduation, he became one of Johnny's family, with all of the benefits, power and wealth that come with being a Moretti. Johnny, having noticed the unpredictable anger that continually flashed and faded in Sonny's eyes, immediately took a keen interest in his explosive attitude. He began honing Sonny into a competent, ruthless Moretti—a clone—to follow in his footsteps.

         Trying the door knob and finding it locked, Marco persisted. "Hey Bro, I see the damn lights. What are you doing here so late? Sonny? Come on Sonny, mind lettin' me in?"

         "Damn it, Marco!" he growled when he realized Marco wasn't giving up. Sonny staggered to the door and opened it.

         "Jesus, Sonny, you look like hell!" he remarked. "What gives?"

         Marco casually strolled in past Sonny, looking like his usual sharp-dressed self and chattering away about some incident downstairs. His dark eyes darted from his disheveled cousin to the cluttered office. Half-eaten meals in to-go containers littered the room and overflowed from the waste baskets. Empty bottles of booze haphazardly lined the floor in front of the sofa, and every ashtray in the room was crammed... some with butts still smoldering. It was obvious to Marco that Sonny had not left this room in several days and the maids had strictly followed his stern "do not disturb" orders.

         It was then Marco spotted the revolver lying on Sonny's desk and gave him a questioning look. Instead of answering, Sonny just stood there swaying. His untucked shirt was wrinkled and stained. His meticulously groomed hair hung in greasy strings against his scruffy, unshaven face. His shoulders sagged and his dark brown eyes had sunk into unknown depths. Even his massive bulk seemed somehow small and vulnerable. This was not the polished, confident Sonny Moretti Marco knew.

         "Sonny, what the hell are you doing?" he asked, this time waiting for an answer.

         Sonny walked back to his desk with a failed effort to disguise his drunken state from Marco. He lit a cigarette and ran a hand through his hair, another failed effort. His eyes locked with Marco's, silently pleading with him to drop it. Turning away he headed toward the balcony hoping for escape, then hesitated in the middle of the room trying to decide how to proceed. After a long silence his words, slightly slurred, surprised him. Deep down Sonny knew once he started this conversation there would be no turning back. "Marco, have you ever wondered why I've remained single all these years?"

         Not knowing where this conversation was headed, Marco played along. "Well, no, not really. It's your lifestyle, you're a player. You've charmed more than your share of the ladies over the years. You and I both know you can have any woman you want. The right one just hasn't come along yet." He forced a chuckle, then added, "I've envied you many times, but don't tell Angie."

         "And I've envied your relationship with Angie as well," Sonny replied. With a flat, dazed look in his eyes he added, "No. No woman will ever have my heart."

         Impatient for answers, Marco asked, "What's that got to do with all this?" He spread his arms, indicating the havoc surrounding them both.

         Sonny returned to the desk, put out his cigarette and picked up the letter, holding it out for Marco. "This is all that's left of the only one who ever had my heart—the only one who ever mattered." He poured the last of the cognac into a glass and pushed it toward Marco, "You're going to need this."

         Marco took the well-worn piece of paper and read. He looked at Sonny and his voice was suddenly sympathetic. "She killed herself? Man, Sonny, I'm so sorry."

         "Marco," Sonny said in a quiet, defeated tone, "JN was a man. The love of my life was a man." He bit his lip and his eyes filled with tears. Sonny's heart was pounding out of his chest and into his head now. He turned away from his cousin, and walked to the balcony, hoping the warm, night air would dry his telltale eyes.

         "Have you lost your mind?" Marco yelled after him,"You're too damn drunk to be having this conversation!"

         Sonny spun around and glared from the doorway. For a moment Johhny's fearless protégé flashed to the surface and Marco backed off in stunned silence.

         GAY?! The color drained from Marco's face as Sonny's words started to take the shape of a hideous demon threatening to corrupt the Moretti family name. Clearly caught off guard, he downed the cognac in one gulp then cautiously joined Sonny on the balcony.

         Looking out into the night, unfocused, Sonny began talking. "His name was Jay Neville. I met him back in my college days when I was more into the party scene than my studies. Jay was a struggling actor and model who frequented the same night clubs that I did. We eyed one another on several occasions before we finally spoke. I knew early on that I was different but never acted on it until Jay showed me how. Throughout our two years together we loved deeply and discreetly. We knew we could offer each other no more than that."

          Marco struggled to hide his disgust as Sonny continued.

         "After father's funeral I went back to England determined to never to come back to Las Vegas. There was no way I could carry on that lifestyle here with our Moretti background. I would have expected to meet up with some "unfortunate demise" if I had. But after graduation, our love was soon tested. It was then your father let me know it was time to take my place in the Moretti family business and cut off all funds. I struggled for several months, torn between my lover and family loyalty. Eventually I returned to Las Vegas, due to the lack of money. It was a regretful decision. Jay killed himself shortly after I came back here. Like Jay, I was never whole again."

         Marco fought the urge to speak his mind. He thought to himself, you god-damned two-faced faggot! How dare you call yourself a Moretti! If you want to kill yourself, by god, I'll help you! I'd throw you right over this balcony if I thought you wouldn't fight back. Finally he just said, "Hell, man, are you seriously thinking about joining him?"

         Sonny turned to him. "I think about it always—like tonight—I try, but I'm such a damned coward!" His hands clenched into tight fists. "Hell, I chose money and family loyalty over love, for gods sake! What kind of person does that? Yeah, a Moretti does that."

         Just do it... Marco thought, kill yourself now! Go be with your queer lover! No way is some fuckin' gay asshole going to run the family! That should have been my place all along, not yours! Marco cautiously uttered, "That had to have hurt him terribly." Hoping to bring Sonny to his breaking point he added softly, "It must tear you up inside knowing that every day you live, you let Jay down."

         Sonny heaved a deep sigh. His shoulders were trembling now. "I've spent my entire life being something I am not for the sake of our Moretti reputation and I'm just so damn tired of the pretense."

         Marco stood like a statue as Sonny squeezed past him and left the balcony. He hoped he had said enough to convince Sonny to end his life so he wouldn't have to pull the trigger himself. Pacing nervously, Marco looked out over the strip with its candy-colored casino lights flashing across his face. He was plotting how he would somehow get the gun to Sonny's head—make it look like a suicide—when he heard the unmistakable crack of a gunshot. A wicked smile slowly crept across his face.

         Returning inside, Marco found Sonny in a heap on the floor. He lit a cigarette and for a moment watched a dark puddle growing under Sonny's head. Collecting his thoughts, he took the handkerchief out of his breast pocket and wiped down the glass he drank from earlier. He picked up the folded letter, tucked it into his jacket pocket and thought to himself, you finally got it right, ol' Sonny boy. We'll see who's gonna head the family business now.

         Sonny's last conversation was already disappearing from Marco's head as he left the office. The facts have a way of changing when you're a Moretti.

word count: 1997