All the Silent Bones by Gregory Funaro

Ronnie Matarese felt a darkness descend upon him, even as he understood that it had always been there, pouring out from those eyes behind the sunglasses and into his apartment. A darkness as indifferent and as cold as the one that had greeted him when he’d returned home. A darkness that feared no light and could not be reasoned with. A darkness that was neither happy nor sad but just was.

Bobby “The Machete” Bonetti had not visited Ronnie to warn him or give him a beating. He had come to kill him. Ronnie suddenly knew this as surely as he was sitting there, and he was both terrified and furious that he hadn’t realized it sooner, when he still might have had a chance to escape. More than anything, though, Ronnie was sad. He wasn’t ready to die—he wasn’t even thirty—but there was no turning back from the elves at the bottom of these stairs. That was what this crazy SOB was trying to tell him.

Ronnie began to cry, softly at first then harder as Bobby finished his story.

“So my mother, she lets me go, but I just held on to the door- frame and didn’t dare look back. She was still there. I could hear her breathing. And in my mind, I watched her, mouth open and eyes blinking as she looked around like she usually did when she came out of one of her episodes. A minute later, I hear the sofa springs in the parlor. She’d been sleeping in there for weeks because the elves hid under her bed, she sometimes thought. But still, I didn’t move. I just stood there, staring down at the darkness in silence.”

Ronnie searched Bobby Bonetti’s sunglasses but saw only murder in the smudge of his reflection, light and shadows on a face that looked like a skull. This was not the way he was supposed to go out, sniveling on his bed like a pussy and not knowing why. And thatwas the hardest part. Not knowing why. Not knowing what he had done—no, not had done but would do. And just as quickly as the darkness had descended, Ronnie saw a light. It was faint at first but coming fast, like when he was speeding through the cross-harbor tunnel up in Boston.

“You said you were here because of something I would do,” Ron- nie said, making no attempt to hide the desperate, trembling hope in his voice. “Not because of something I did but because of something I would do. That’s what you said, right? What is it? Tell me what you think I’m gonna do, and I swear on the souls of my dead parents that I won’t do it. Please, I’m begging you, Mr. Bonetti. You have my word.”

“I would give anything to have that kind of silence again,” Bobby said. “A silence so precious that, when it’s broken, it stings you like a box of bees.”

Then Bobby shot him.