Page 10 of Broken Mafia Prince
I watch as Father removes the cigar from his mouth and blows smoke into the air. He gives no outward reaction to the news of my grades, but I know him well enough to feel his fury prickling against my skin.
He finally speaks. “Thank you, Tony. That will be all.”
The younger man wastes no time in scrambling from his chair and hurrying out. He shoots me an apologetic glance that I pretend not to see, knowing Father is watching me like a hawk.
“What do you think?” he asks, his fingers steepled together on the desk in front of him.
“About what, sir?” I reply cautiously, knowing better than to assume.
“Your grades. You don’t think Tony’s made a mistake?”
“My grades have actually improved,” I say defensively. “I got an F in math last time, and now I have a D. It’s not much, but?—”
“You know, Raffaele,” he interrupts smoothly, leaning forward, “Santino was telling me about his son the other day. You know Santino’s son, don’t you? He’s your age. Surely, you’ve met him.”
Of course, I know him. Santino’s son is the loud-mouthed show-off who never misses a chance to remind everyone how perfect his life is. I try my best to steer clear of him at events. I nod but say nothing, unsure where this is going.
A humorless smile tugs at my father’s lips.
“He plays soccer for the junior league team, and he gets straight A’s. Santino never shuts up about him, and why would he? He’s got a brilliant, athletic son. Santino’s not got much in the way of money in the bank, and his wife isn’t all that beautiful.”
He pauses. “But he’s got a son that’s worth more than all the money, and men I have in my pocket. So, let me ask you again. What do you think?”
I open my mouth to respond, but he rises to his feet, the creak of his chair cutting me off. “There’s no need for you to respond. You can’t get an A grade, so I know nothing goes on between your ears.”
My knuckles are white from clutching the material of my pants so tightly.
“Mother says…”I begin, but the words die in my throat as his sharp glare pins me to the chair.
“Yourmadreshould learn to keep her mouth shut,” he snaps coldly, stepping around the table to stand before me.
“She coddles you, makes excuses for your failures. But this is the real world, Raffaele, not one of your English essays. Out there, respect is earned, not gifted. Do you think theCosaNostracares about your creative words when you can’t balance a ledger or calculate interest on a loan?”
I focus on the desk, my nails digging into my palms to keep my anger in check.
“Do you know what they call me, Raffaele?” he continues, pacing now, the cigar still clutched between his fingers. “Il Leone.The Lion. I built this family’s empire with my bare hands, clawing my way to the top. And what do I have to show for it? A son who can’t even hold a candle to Santino’s boy.”
Actually, he didn’t build anything with his bare hands. We come from a long line of wealth and generational connections. Our family was one of the richest in the mafia, its power stretching far before his time. But I know better than to say anything now.
I’ve seen this act before—the way he lies to himself, trying to make his trust fund upbringing look less obvious. But I keep quiet.
He stops pacing and turns to face me, his gaze icy. “Do you think Santino’s son will flinch when the time comes to lead? No. He’ll stand tall, like his father taught him. And you? What will you do, Raffaele? Hide behind your books? Or worse, your mother’s skirts?”
“I’m not a coward,” I say, my pulse racing as I meet his piercing stare.
“No?” His brow arches, and he exhales another puff of smoke, the room thick with its acrid scent. “Then prove it. Because right now, I see nothing but weakness.”
The silence that follows is deafening. He extinguishes the cigar with a deliberate press into the ashtray, the sound sharp and final, like a judge’s gavel.
“On your feet.”
I stand slowly, my eyes wide, still trying to process the moment.
“Good-for-nothing boy,” he hisses. “You’re my heir, and yet I have to hide you away like a dirty little secret. Tony’s supposed to be a miracle worker. I pay a boatload of money for him to work hismiracolo, and this is what you give me?”
“I’ll do better, I’ll?—”
My words are abruptly cut off as the back of my father’s hand connects with my face, the force knocking me sideways. I taste blood as it floods my mouth, and I brace for the next strike. My eyes close involuntarily, my breath held in a painful pause.
