Page 1 of The Cost of Silence

1.Nico

Ten Years Ago

The house is tooquiet for how full it is. Every surface holds traces of the funeral, half-empty tumblers of whiskey, wilting flowers, the sickly scent of lilies heavy in the air. I don’t think I’ll ever smell them again without feeling this grief. Everyone expects to lose a parent, but when it happens, it feels like the ground shifting beneath your feet. Nothing is steady anymore. Outside, a storm gathers over the Sound, the air thick with the metallic ozone tang that comes before rain. It suits my mood perfectly.

My black suit jacket clings to my shoulders as I stand in the doorway of my father’s study. Matteo, my youngest brother, paces near the window, his restless energy snapping at the silence. Adriano, Adi to us, sits on the edge of the leather sofa, still in his black tie, eyes unfocused, fingers turning an unlit cigarette.

We’re too young for these clothes, barely men, too young for this kind of loss. Each of us loved our mother differently. I was her eldest, but she had so much love to give, she took others intoher heart, especially those she could see needed her nurturing hand. Matteo and Adi, even our friends Lucas and Eddie from Ohio. She loved us all, and now we’re expected to go on with the hole of her loss in our lives.

Papà looks older than he did at the church this morning. His tie is loose, sleeves rolled, but his back stays straight behind the desk. I loved my mother, but he adored the ground she walked on.

“Come in, ragazzi,” he says, exhaustion in every word. “It’s time we talked about what happens next.”

We move quietly into the room, closing the door and blocking out the scene of grief. The old clock ticks behind me, every second stretching.

Matteo breaks first. “What does happen next, Dad? Everyone’s saying the sharks can smell blood. They’ll come for the docks, the contracts.”

Matteo is charismatic chaos. He’s charming and fun, and I’ve never met a person better with numbers. Give him a spreadsheet and he’ll find the flaw in seconds. He’s been running the numbers on the docks since he was fifteen, when my father saw his potential early.

“They’ll come,” Papà says, voice steady and low. “And we’ll decide what we give them. Now is not the time to panic. It’s the time to plan.” His gaze lands on me. “You’re not me, figlio mio. You can make this family something better, something she would be proud of.”

The words hit like a weight and a blessing all at once. “She was proud of you, Dad.”

My father waves me away with a scoff. “I know she was, but this life, it takes and takes from you. She wanted more for you, for all of you. She wanted you to sleep at night with peace in your hearts.”

I know he’s right. She did want something different for us, but this life is all I know. All I’ve ever wanted is to emulate my father. “I want this life, but I want to honor her memory too.”

“Then we’ll do both.”

Adi looks up, voice soft but firm. “How?”

“By building something that lasts,” Papà answers. “Something not born of debt and fear. You already have the pieces, and you have the skills.”

Lightning flashes white across the window; thunder follows, slow and deep.

Papà’s hand rests on a framed photograph lying on the desk, my mother laughing on the porch of our lake house in Ohio, Eddie Crowe’s guitar sitting in the corner, Lucas Ryan’s arm slung over my shoulder. The picture still looks sun-warm despite the gray day. So many happy, carefree memories.

“That summer,” he says, voice gentler, “when your mother was still well, do you remember that night on the lake?”

I nod. I remember the bonfire’s heat, my mother dancing barefoot in the sand while Eddie played, Lucas hammering the rhythm on an old cooler lid, stars shaking loose over the water. It was the summer I’d turned sixteen, and we’d had an extended break, my father managing to stay for two whole weeks before he was called away for work. She called it the night the world stopped feeling heavy.

“That’s what we protect,” Papà says. “Not money. Not reputation. The nights that make life worth it.” He looks between us, his three sons, the men he’s raising to carry his name. “You three build something clean enough that those nights can keep existing. We walk away from the shadows. But if they follow us—God help them.”

Matteo’s grin is brittle but real. “Guess I’m the numbers.”

Adi’s voice steadies. “And I’ll keep the paperwork honest.”

Papà’s eyes return to me. “And you keep the promise, sì? No matter how hard it gets.”

Rain starts in earnest then, drumming against the windows, filling the pauses between our breaths. Papà pours whiskey into four glasses, the scent of oak and smoke rising into the storm-thick air. Dad wants us clean. I want us safe. I want us whole. But wanting doesn’t keep the monsters from circling.

We drink standing up, no toast, no ceremony, just the burn and heat of his favorite drink. Thunder answers like applause, booming in the distance.

I glance once more at the photograph, my mother frozen in that flash of joy, and I know I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to build a world where that kind of light can survive.

Present Day

The storm comes again. Different decade, same sky.