Page 15 of Broken Mafia Prince
My legs automatically carry me to my twin’s bed, and I crawl into it, tears soaking her pillow. That day on the cliff, I lost everything, and I hadn’t even realized it until now. Papa is still alive, but he is as good as gone to me.
“I miss you, Val. I miss you, Mama,” I whisper.
I feel so alone, more isolated than I’ve ever felt. Even when Mama used to ground me for bad behavior. I’d give anything to have that again, to have a family.
The tears come before I can stop them. They’re hot and relentless, spilling down my cheeks and soaking into the sleeves of my sweater as I try to muffle my sobs. Crying feels like the only thing I can do lately.
Cry and hope that one day, the ache will dull into something I can bear.
I cried until my chest ached and my throat felt raw. But it didn’t make the pain go away. Nothing did.
After a while, I wipe my face and move from the bed, crouching to pull out the old wooden chest I keep hidden beneath it. It’s scratched and worn, the lid slightly warped from years of use.
Valentina and I called it our treasure chest. It’s where we kept everything that mattered to us—letters folded into tiny squares, old movie ticket stubs, crumpled notes we passed to each other in class.
I open it carefully, the familiar creak of the hinges stirring a pang of nostalgia. The contents haven’t been touched since before the accident. My fingers trace the faded photo strip on top—four little squares of us pulling goofy faces, our arms wrapped around each other.
I can almost hear Valentina’s laugh echoing in the back of my mind.
Beneath the letters and photos, my hand brushes against something cool and metallic. I pull it out.
It’s the medallion necklace—a delicate silver half-heart with my initials,G.M., carved into it. Valentina wore the other half, the jagged edges fitting together perfectly. We promised never to take them off, but mine has been buried in this chest since the accident.
The last day I wore it was then, and I am never putting it on again.
The chain dangles from my fingers, and the pendant feels heavier than I remember. I stopped wearing it because it hurt too much, but now, I can’t bring myself to put it down.
I wish I had something of Mama’s to hold onto. Something real.
Then, a memory pops into my head.
I see Mama—she’s kneeling on the floor in her room, her fingers lifting a floorboard by the bed. I remember how she jumped when I walked in, her hands moving fast to put the board back.
I didn’t think much about it at the time. But now, it feels important, like a secret I need to find out.
I shove the chest back under my bed and tiptoe out of my room. The hum of conversation from downstairs drifts up the staircase, but I slip quietly into Mama’s room and shut the door behind me.
The air is cool and still, faintly scented with her perfume. I kneel by the bed, feeling along the floorboards until I find the one that feels loose. My nails scrape at the edges, but it doesn’t budge. Frustration builds as I dig my fingers in harder, the wood biting into my skin.
Finally, with a soft creak, the board lifts. My heart pounds as I peer into the dark space below.
There it is.
A small chest, almost identical to mine and Valentina’s, nestled in the hollow beneath the floor. My hands tremble as I lift it out, the weight of it sending a jolt of anticipation through me.
When I open the lid, my breath catches. It’s empty, except for a single folded letter.
The paper feels fragile in my hands, the edges yellowed and frayed with time. My chest tightens, a lump rising in my throat as I unfold it. The handwriting stops me cold. It’s delicate, slanted, and achingly familiar.
It’s hers.
My mama’s.
4
RAFFAELE
“Yes! Yes, Oh fuck!” a woman’s voice screams, and I step closer to the gaping door.
