Page 14 of Broken Mafia Prince
“Why don’t you excuse us?” she tells the man, and he takes one last drag of his cigar before walking away.
“He shouldn’t smoke in front of a child.” She makes a sound of disapproval deep in her throat. “How awful.”
Without a response, I begin to walk away from her, but she grabs the back of my rumpled dress, halting me. “Not so fast. I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight.”
“I want to see Papa.”
“He’s occupied at the moment.”
“Not even for five minutes?” I gasp.
“Not even for a minute,” she replies coldly. “Why don’t you go up to bed? I know it’s been a trying day, and I’m sure you need the rest.”
I stare at her, trying to understand. Is she trying to keep me from Papa, or is it that he doesn’t want to see me at all? I ultimately decide it doesn’t matter. If Papa wanted to see me, he would have. It’s clear he doesn’t.
Tears blur my vision as I turn on my heel, looking for a quiet corner where I can disappear. But no matter where I go, I see people in black. Some I know, most I don’t.
The men wear dark glasses, walking with that custom, deliberate step, heads held high. The women, their giant hatshiding what might be teary eyes—or what seems like it—carry baskets filled with gifts.
When I first came downstairs, they handed me a napkin, patting my face as if to wipe away tears that weren’t even there. They shuffle around, acting like they belong, offering hollow condolences or helping themselves to food from the trays, all while the air smells of fake sympathy.
Now that the event seems to be winding down, their words shift from concern to pity, which I absolutely hate.
Others laugh, like this is some sort of reunion, while they stuff their faces, all smiles, as if nothing is wrong.
I feel out of place, like I’m not supposed to be here.
Why did it have to be Mama? Why?
And if things couldn’t get worse, Papa doesn’t even want to talk about it. Every time I try, he waves me off with some excuse about being busy. Busy with what, I don’t know.
He treats me like a plague while he drowns himself in rum and scotch.
I think back to that day. The chaos, the screams, the way the world seemed to tilt on its axis. “Papa!” I had cried out, my voice cracking as I begged him to save Mama. But he didn’t. He just… kept running. Chasing that man.
“It isn’t his fault,” I whisper, like a prayer, over and over every night, trying to justify how horrible what he did was.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to erase the memory, but it clings to me, like glass buried too deep to pull out.
How, even after the worst of it, he didn’t break down or lash out. He just… went silent.
And now? He’s cold. Distant. Like he’s shut himself off from everything, from me, and I need him to be my father now, more than ever.
The hums of every conversation blend into a low, constant drone.
I don’t want to talk to anyone, but that doesn’t stop some family members from calling out to me.
Family. That word feels all wrong now. What kind of family only comes when it’s too late? They weren’t here before.
Most of them haven’t been in our house for a long time, and now they’re acting like they care. I don’t want them here. They talk to me, but I don’t listen. I just say things to make them go away.
They move on quickly enough, their eyes already scanning the room for someone else to console. Someone who might make them feel better about themselves.
Eat, console, laugh. They rinse and repeat.
When most of them finally leave, the house feels quieter. I march away from the room, ignoring the pitying glances from the remaining people. Eager to escape the room, which is starting to feel suffocating, I pick up my pace, racing up the steps and down the hallway to my bedroom.
At the doorway, I grind to a halt. Val and I may have been twins, but being fraternal, we couldn’t be more different—and it’s evident in our decor. Mama had split the room in two, helping us bring our individual styles to life.
