Page 17 of Broken Mafia Prince
“What do you want?”
Before I decided to come down here, I had practiced what I planned to say a dozen times in the mirror. But now, standing before him, all those words desert me. There’s suddenly a disconnect between my brain and my mouth.
“I w-want… I mean t-to say that—” I pause and try again. “Father, I’d like to request f-for some—” His eyes pierce through me, and I feel a burning sensation at my failure to appear calm and grown-up before him.
“Say what you want or get out,” he commands, his voice cold and his irritation slicing through me. “Or is speaking now too much to ask of you?”
I swallow, steel my spine, and imagine that it’s Mother seated there. This time, the words flow out easily. “Father, I’d like to request some money.”
“What for?”
I considered lying when I was practicing in my room. I know that he won’t hesitate to give me money for a football or a baseball mitt, but if he ever asks where the equipment is and I come up empty, there will be hell to pay.
“There’s a book—” I begin, but he interrupts.
“A book,” he echoes, puffing on his cigar. “And what’s so special about this book?” He says the last word like it’s a personal affront.
“It’s a story about a brave farmer who becomes the hero of his town when the?—”
He raises his palm to stop me. “You want to buy a book, a storybook. Do I have that right? My son wants to read a storybook about heroes and villains.”
Father rises to his feet and comes around the table to stand before me. “Do I have that right?”
I want to tell him it’s more than just heroes and villains, that it’s about bravery and caring enough to fight for something. I wish I had more things I cared enough about to fight for, but the life I’m living has been carefully curated by someone else. The only thing worth defending is Mother. I need to protect her. I can’t let him send her to my aunt’s in Italy for months again, claiming she needs to finally learn how to be a proper wife before coming back.
“Yes, Father,” I mumble, my head bowed, unable to meet his gaze.
Without warning, his hand lashes out and grips my jaw, forcing me to look up at him. His blue eyes are cold and hard, mirroring my own. “You want to spend your weekend reading about farmers?” he sneers. “Do you do these things just to embarrass me? To make me beat my head against the wall, wondering where I went wrong?”
“No, Father,” I blurt out, eyes wide in panic.
“Then it’s your mother, isn’t it?” He shakes me roughly. “Did I not tell you to stop spending so much time around her? Do I have to get rid of her permanently this time for you to come to your senses?
“Don’t touch my mother!” I scream, pulling away from his grip. “If you touch her, I will?—”
“You will what?” he snarls, and before I can react, the back of his hand comes down on my face. I stagger back from the force of the blow, my teeth cutting into the inside of my cheeks.
He grabs me by the collar, lifting me off my feet. “What will you do, Raffaele? Let me tell you what you’ll do—you’ll do nothing, because you can do nothing. The next time you threaten me, make sure it’s not an empty one.Capisci?”
I nod quickly, eager to escape his grasp, eager to leave this house entirely. Without Mother, this building doesn’t feel like home, and I hate it here more than ever.
Father tosses me away from him, and I don’t wait for him to decide he’s not had enough of me. I turn and walk away, head held high. I’ve since learned never to show Father my weaknesses, my tears, or my eagerness to escape his presence.
Only when I’m far from his office do I pick up the pace, rushing through the living room, the piano room, and the countless other rooms that make this place feel more like a mausoleum than a home. I don’t stop running until I’m out of the house and on the street.
Only then do I slow down, kicking at loose rocks on the road. “I hate you. I hate you so much,” I mutter.
My favorite pastime is imagining a life without Father. A life where Mother doesn’t have to take so many trips away just to escape this gilded cage. A life where I can have all the books I want and never be smacked around.
“Where do you think you’re going, freak?” I hear a boy’s voice taunting.
I glance up sharply, ready to run in the opposite direction, until I notice that the boys aren’t talking to me. Three boys are standing around something. I recognize one of them from some of the parties Father has forced me to attend.
The biggest one in the middle is Rocco, and the other two appear to be his cronies.
“Let’s just end his miserable existence,” Rocco sneers.
I’m about to walk past when I hear a whimper, and despite everything in me telling me to be on my way and I don’t want to get involved in whatever they’re up to, I find myself heading in their direction.
