Zommunist Invasion | Book 3 | Scattered Picott, Camille (best ereader for pc .TXT) 📖

Wrapping the towel around his waist, he opened the bathroom door and walked slowly to the boys’ bunk room.

The Soviet fatigue pants—a twisted souvenir from his trip to Rossi—remained on the floor in a stinking pile.

44

Toughest Girl in the Village

Nonna was just setting the pot of pasta sauce on the kitchen table when she heard the bathroom door open. She glanced up and saw Anton limp into the bunk room, a dark towel around his waist.

“Eat,” she ordered, setting a second pot—this one with freshly cooked noodles—on the table.

Leaving everyone to dig in to the afternoon meal, Nonna headed over to the row of backpacks hanging on hooks by the door. She grabbed her son’s backpack, which hung heavy from the weight of the whiskey bottle. The first aid kit was also inside, still there from last night.

Steeling herself, Nonna marched into the boys’ bunk room. Anton sat on the edge of a bed, buttoning up a clean pair of jeans.

If possible, he looked even worse now that he had showered. The clean skin made the wounds stand out. At least the smell of piss was gone.

“Where are your dirty pants?” she asked.

“I forgot them in the bathroom.”

“I want you to throw them out with the mutant bodies. We’ll bury them.”

“Yes, Nonna.”

She sat on the bed next to him and pulled out the bottle of whiskey. Removing the stopper, she took two long swigs. It was a good delay tactic.

It was a good way to steel her nerves for tending her grandson’s wrecked body.

Wordlessly, she handed the bottle to Anton.

He took it without question. Tilting his head back, he took three long swallows.

“I didn’t know you kept whiskey around the cabin.” Anton handed the bottle back to her.

“That’s because I kept it hidden.” Nonna returned the stopper and pulled the first aid kit out of the backpack. “Let me get a good look at you, Antony.”

He turned so that his back was to her, letting her see the wounds there.

Truth be told, she would almost rather gouge out her own eyes than look at the atrocities done to her grandson. She forced herself to look anyway. Hiding would serve no purpose.

She missed her son every day. For the first time, she felt relief Giuseppe wasn’t alive to see what had been done to his son. Her Giuseppe was a kind-hearted man. This would have shattered his soul.

First came the peroxide. She applied liberal amounts to cotton balls and went for the cuts. Anton didn’t make a sound as she cleaned the disinfected the wounds.

“How are your ribs?” She prodded several of the darker bruises on his torso.

He flinched. “Hurts.”

“You might have cracked ribs.”

“I figured. What can I do?”

“They’ll heal on their own,” she replied. “You just have to take it easy.”

Anton snorted at that. Nonna understood. It was hard to take it easy when they were at war.

“Try not to twist too much or lift anything that’s heavy,” she said. “Make sure you take deep breaths even if it hurts. That will keep pneumonia from setting in.”

“You can get pneumonia from cracked ribs?”

“You certainly can, young man. My great uncle got pneumonia after falling out of a tree and cracking his ribs.”

“He survives the KGB only to die of pneumonia,” Anton muttered.

“You are a Cecchino,” Nonna told him. “You are not going to die of pneumonia. You are a survivor, Antony. Don’t you dare forget it.”

He didn’t respond. Nonna finished cleaning and disinfecting his back. When she was finished, she said a small prayer, asking God to give her strength for what she knew was coming. She was about to face the worst of Anton’s wounds head-on.

“Let me see your other side now, Antony.”

He obediently turned around. She found herself staring into his vacant eyes.

A deep grief shivered through her. Nonna felt cold all the way down to her bones. It was like standing in the winter snow back in her village.

You’re the toughest girl in the village. Luca’s voice drifted through her mind. She could practically smell the fresh snow on the ground, even though it had been several decades since she’d last stood in snow.

She was tough. Luca was right about that. Nonna Cecchino would not weep over the sight of her grandson.

She clenched her jaw, focusing her attention on the carving on his chest. A weaker woman would have fallen to pieces. Nonna merely studied the knife wounds.

“I think it’s too late for stitches. They’re already beginning to scab.”

“I don’t need stitches.”

Nonna rubbed antibiotic cream on the knife wound and covered the abomination with gauze and a bandage.

Next her attention went to the cigarette burns. Using the antiseptic cream, she applied it to the little burn marks all over his body. He had them on his jaw, neck, ribcage, and back. Anton’s handsome face would never be the same.

Setting aside the antiseptic tube, Nonna regarded her grandson. “Did you kill the ones who did this to you?” she asked quietly.

“I wasn’t the one to kill him. But he’s dead.”

“As long as he’d dead.” Unable to help herself, she rested one hand against his cheek, the one untouched by cigarette burns. “I’m glad you’re home, Antony.”

He stared back at her in vacant silence.

“My brother once told me that strength is up here.” Nonna gently tapped Anton’s forehead. “You are strong, Antony. You are one of the strongest boys I know.”

“Your brother? The one killed by Mussolini’s supporters in the war?”

“He wasn’t killed by a fascist. That was a lie told by me and my cousin.” The truth sprang free of her, words that had been trapped inside her body for far too long. Never again would she spread the lie surrounding Luca’s death.

“You lied about your brother’s death?” A dent appeared in Anton’s brow. It was the first facial expression she had seen since he’d returned home.

“Yes. My cousin killed your great-uncle and I helped him cover it up.”

“But—why?”

Nonna sighed. “My brother was like Juli. It got him killed.”

“Who?”

Anton hadn’t yet met