Page 12 of Broken Mafia Prince
The officer said it plainly, like it’s just another fact of life. My chest tightens, the air seeming too thin around me. Eaten by sharks? How does someone process that? How do you grieve for someone when there’s nothing left to bury?
Eleonora Montanari and Valentina Montanari. The stone is pristine and impersonal, a cruel reminder of how little we have left of them.
I try to remember Valentina’s laugh—the bright, wild sound of it that used to fill the house—and the way Mama hummed her favorite old songs while stirring a pot of soup. But the memories feel slippery, fading just as I try to hold onto them.
My hand shakes as I trace the engraved letters of Valentina’s name. The last time I saw her, she was laughing, her face alive with mischief. It doesn’t seem real.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, though my voice cracks on the words. “I should’ve been faster. I should’ve done something…”
The guilt burns hot, a relentless ache that’s been living in my chest since that day.
“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,” the priest recites his monologue, and I hear people sniffing.
I scan the faces surrounding us for what feels like the hundredth time. A parade of strangers. Our family of four used to live a quiet life, and I preferred it that way. But since the accident, there’s been a new face every day.
It makes me irrationally angry to hear their sobs, sniffles, and sorrowful sighs. What do they even know about Mama and Val? These people don’t know them, and they shouldn’t be mourning them.
A sea of black stretches out over our large backyard, where the headstones have been set up close to a cliff. Val used to dare me to join her at the edge, but I had never taken the risk; now she’s gone, and I fear I might never.
Around me are men and women in outfits that look too elegant for the occasion. In comparison, my black dress and sweater are heavily creased because Mama isn’t here to smooth them out and make them perfect for me.
One of Papa’s new friends tried to help with my hair today, but I screamed until she walked away. I peek over at her now at Papa’s side, her red-clawed fingers wrapped around his arm.I may not know much, but I know that she’s not supposed to be holding him like that.
“Amen,” Papa says, bringing me out of my dark thoughts.
He steps forward with a white rose, kneels before Mama’s gravestone, and whispers something. When he’s done, he returns to my side.
“Go.” He holds out a rose for me.
“No,” I reply stubbornly. “She’s not even in there. The sea has her body.”
Papa drags a hand through his hair, looking tired. There’s a hardness in his face that has never been a part of his face, but now it’s settled in like laugh lines.
“Why must you be so stubborn?” he finally hisses. “Go say goodbye to them.”
I take a cautionary step backward. “I don’t want to.”
I expect him to push further, to insist that I obey him, but to my surprise and disappointment, he merely nods and turns away, leaving yet another dent in my heart. After that awful day on the cliffside, Father carried me into the blue truck that had killed our family, and without a word, he drove us back home, ignoring all my panicked, teary questions.
“Papa, we have to go back. We have to find Val. We have to—” I’d screamed, over and over, but my words fell on deaf ears. Papa kept his gaze resolutely ahead.
“Papa!” I had grabbed his arm, trying to stop him from driving, but instead, he had grabbed my wrist sharply and turned his head in my direction for just a moment.
“They’re gone, Giulia!” he roared, shaking me. “They’re gone, and they’re never coming back. Do you hear me? They’re gone.”
“Why didn’t you save her?” I had whispered. “If you had been there from the start…” I trailed off, looking over at Papa to judge his reaction.
His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.
Since that day, Papa hasn’t said a word about either of the people we lost. He seems to be more focused on the tattooed men who weave in and out like they own the place. Even now, I can see the men lined up at the very back row, their small beady eyes tracking around.
They are the ones he laughs with. His “buddies,” as he calls them. They joke, they drink, they smoke their cigarettes, and for them, it’s like nothing’s changed. As if the world hasn’t been torn apart.
Sometimes, I hear his voice, too casual, too light. It makes my stomach twist in knots. How can he speak like that? How can he act as if nothing’s different?
After the burial, our large group begins the walk back to the house. I try to hold Papa’s hand, but he shrugs me off without a second glance. “I’m busy, go play with the other kids.”
“I don’t want to play,” I murmur, but it’s pointless. There are no kids here anyway. I just want to be near him. He’s the only person in this sea of strangers who truly knew and loved them.
