Chapter 8 - THE SECOND PICTURE
One year after the memorial disaster, we held another game at Anthony Santoro Field.
Not another dedication.
No bronze plaque.
No donors pretending they loved baseball.
Just opening day.
Little League.
Hot dogs.
Bad coffee.
Parents yelling about strikes as if World Series scouts were watching.
Jamie was eleven.
He had grown three inches and still dropped his elbow when tired.
Anthony would have been furious.
Rachel sat behind home plate with Angela.
My mother sat four rows away.
That arrangement had taken a year.
Carmela and Rachel were not friends.
Probably never would be.
But they could occupy same bleachers without weaponizing history.
Progress.
Victor’s case had moved slowly.
He eventually pleaded guilty to charges tied to Anthony’s death and criminal conspiracy surrounding my ambush.
He admitted intentionally striking Anthony’s vehicle but maintained he never intended a fatal crash.
The distinction mattered legally.
Emotionally?
Less.
He would spend years in prison.
My mother faced consequences too.
She had concealed evidence and paid Victor to disappear.
Her lawyers negotiated.
She accepted responsibility.
No prison due age and circumstances? Could be probation/community service? Let's keep broad: court-supervised sentence, substantial penalties, testimony, no control of family entities. Good.
More important to me:
She was no longer part of Santoro business.
For first time in fifty years, Carmela did not know every shipment, every captain, every grievance.
She hated it.
Good.
Angela apologized too.
Not to me.
To Rachel.
At field before game.
“I knew there was a child.”
Rachel nodded.
“I told myself it wasn’t my place.”
“Wasn’t.”
Angela looked surprised.
Rachel continued.
“But once Anthony died, it became everybody’s place to stop your mother from cutting us off.”
Angela cried.
“I was afraid of her.”
“So was I.”
No instant forgiveness.
Then Angela said:
“I’m sorry.”
Rachel answered:
“I know.”
Enough.
Jamie’s team wore navy.
Number 18.
He chose Anthony’s number.
When I noticed, throat tightened.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Anthony’s glove.”
Simple.
He wore glove.
The glove.
Rachel had asked if it should be displayed at memorial.
Jamie said:
“No. Gloves are for catching.”
Correct.
In third inning, Jamie caught line drive so hard he nearly fell.
Stood up grinning.
Carmela cheered before remembering she had once tried to remove him from picture.
She looked almost ashamed to be happy.
Rachel noticed.
Then smiled faintly.
Permission, maybe.
After game, photographer from league gathered families near dugout.
Same place.
Same angle.
I almost laughed at cruelty of symmetry.
“Players and immediate family.”
Jamie stood with Rachel.
I stood aside.
Photographer waved.
“Mr. Santoro, you can join.”
I looked at Jamie.
His choice.
He nodded.
So I stepped in.
Angela joined.
Her kids.
Then Carmela remained behind bleachers.
Photographer looked confused.
“You too, ma’am?”
She shook head.
“No.”
Jamie looked over.
“Carmela.”
She froze.
“Come on.”
Rachel’s expression changed.
She said nothing.
Carmela walked slowly.
Not center.
Edge.
Jamie grabbed her sleeve.
“Not there.”
Her face fell.
Then he moved her beside Angela.
“You’re too far.”
She cried immediately.
Of course.
Photographer panicked.
“Should we wait?”
Jamie said:
“She cries a lot.”
I laughed.
Mom hit my arm.
Soft.
Picture taken.
Nobody removed.
No speeches.
That photograph became first family image where Jamie was not hidden.
He never framed it.
Rachel did.
Anthony’s grave was next.
Jamie had asked to go alone with me.
Rachel agreed.
We stood before stone.
ANTHONY GIUSEPPE SANTORO
BROTHER
SON
1981–2021
No “capo.”
No criminal title.
Just family.
Jamie set baseball on grass.
I said:
“You can keep that.”
“I have more.”
Fair.
He looked at name.
“Why didn’t he tell me he was my brother?”
“He wanted to.”
“When?”
“When you were older.”
“Adults like later.”
I almost smiled.
“Yes.”
“Is later bad?”
“Sometimes.”
He thought.
“Maybe he wanted me normal.”
“Probably.”
“Was I?”
I looked at him.
“No one who practices curveballs four hours is normal.”
He grinned.
Then serious.
“Did he die because of me?”
My chest tightened.
“No.”
“Victor said stuff about me.”
“Victor made choices because he wanted money and control.”
“Grandma made choices because she was hurt and scared.”
“Anthony made choices because he loved people and sometimes thought he had to handle everything himself.”
“You didn’t cause any of it.”
Jamie stared at grave.
“Okay.”
Then:
“Did you almost die because of Victor?”
“Yes.”
“Do you hate him?”
“Some days.”
“Would you kill him if you could?”
There it was.
Harder than any captain question.
I thought.
“Five years ago?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because then you would lose another brother.”
His eyes moved to me.
That was answer.
Jamie kicked grass.
“Good.”
We stood quiet.
Then he handed me Anthony’s glove.
I stared.
“What?”
“Catch.”
He had ball.
“I’m wearing suit.”
“So?”
“This suit costs more than your school tuition.”
“Then don’t miss.”
Anthony would have loved him.
I put glove on.
Still fit badly.
Jamie threw.
High.
I caught.
Barely.
He laughed.
“You’re terrible.”
“Again.”
We played catch beside Anthony’s grave until my shoulder hurt.
Not memorial.
Not grief ritual.
Just brothers.
That evening Luca came to house.
“Pier Six numbers.”
“I’m off.”
“You’re never off.”
“I’m playing family.”
He stared toward backyard where Jamie and Angela’s kids were arguing.
Then smiled.
“Looks dangerous.”
“Very.”
Organization had changed over year.
We shut pill routes.
Exited two gambling rooms that had become trouble.
Kept trucking.
Restaurants.
Warehouses.
Construction.
Some illicit pieces remained.
I will not lie.
But line had moved.
No children as leverage.
No threats against families.
No drugs through docks.
No “family” excuse for internal violence.
We created council process for leadership incapacity so no one ever needed to stage weakness or hide truth behind one man.
Luca called it bureaucracy.
I called it not getting shot.
Both.
Then Rachel joined us carrying lemonade.
“Jamie says you owe him twenty dollars.”
“What?”
“Bet.”
“He says he could strike you out.”
“That child is a criminal.”
Rachel looked at me.
“Family trait?”
I groaned.
She laughed.
For years she had spoken to Santoros carefully.
Not anymore.
Good.
Then she grew serious.
“Anthony promised me I wouldn’t have to clean anymore.”
I looked.
“I remember.”
“I thought he meant money.”
“And?”
“I think he meant choice.”
That landed.
She had it now.
Not from Anthony.
Not me.
From rebuilding.
She worked.
Went to class.
Paid her rent.
Raised Jamie.
Told us no when needed.
“Would he be happy?”
I asked.
Rachel thought.
“He’d complain about my apartment.”
“Definitely.”
“And Jamie’s elbow.”
“Constantly.”
Then smiled.
“Yes.”
I looked toward field beyond yard? Not same. The family house had lawn.
Maybe.
May you like
For first time, I could imagine Anthony’s memory without imagining his death.
That was progress too.
