This story takes place shortly after the events of this story and before the events of this story.
The box that contains my brother lowers slowly into the abyss of worms and dirt that they call a grave. It's just a hole. A bullet hole in the body of the Earth, just like the one in Johnny's head. I have matching one in my heart. I loved my brother more than anything. He was the only family I had left. I am alone. Empty. A hole.
Johnny was a cop. He was a good man. Why would someone want him dead?
I look across the hole in the ground and look at his fellow police officers. They are solemn, staring down at the black coffin, their hats in their hands, rain pouring like tears down their bodies. They look like they want to weep, but the sky is already doing it for them.
I stand there for hours. I watch the hole in the ground become a scar of fresh dirt amongst the green grass. A hole of color. And what is the graveyard if not an enormous hole in this city? Holes within holes.
It becomes dark. A hole in the sky, perhaps? Fitting. I still stand by Johnny's gravestone, clutching the blood-red roses that are becoming bruised in the rain. I set them down finally and walk down the cobblestone path that weaved down through the graveyard to the gates. I walk out onto the sidewalk and look up at the stormy sky. It's still crying. At least I won't mourn alone.
A black limousine's lights pierce my eyes from down the street. It stops right next to where I'm standing on the sidewalk and the rear window rolled down.
"Are you Mark Colt?" the young, European looking man in a black suit asks me.
"Yeah," I say warily. "Why are you asking?"
"I'm very sorry about your loss. My sister was killed just minutes before your brother. Johnny was the first on the scene. I can't help feel that we could relate to each other, and was wondering if you'd like to talk."
I look up and down the street and see no other cars. I may as well get a ride home.
"Sure," I say, and the man opens his door. I step in and sit on the perfectly upholstered seat across from him. "Thanks for the ride. What's your name?"
"Harvey Farleone. My sister was named Martha." He extends his hand to me to shake it. I don't return the gesture.
"Farleone? Like the mob boss?" I ask accusingly.
"My father. But just because I'm related doesn't mean I approve of his actions."
"You sure don't seem to have a problem with his money," I say gesturing around the limo.
"A necessary facade to keep. I'd rather not be killed by my father," Harvey replies.
"I think I'll walk from here, thanks," I tell him with disgust.
"Please hear me out, Mark."
"I'm good, actually."
"I'm sorry if you're uncomfortable," he tells me bluntly. "But frankly, you're only getting out if I want you to, and you may as well hear what I have to say."
"Not interested," I reply.
"Is that so? So you'd rather not know why your brother is rotting in a hole?"