Page 21 of Broken Mafia Prince
A memory of Val asking Mama when we were going to visit her mother flashes in my head. Papa had laughed and snatched my twin into the air, distracting her with tickles, but I had noticed Mama’s sudden quietness.
I wonder if my grandparents know that Mama is dead? Papa ought to tell them. And then another horrible thought occurs to me.
The letter still being here means that it was never delivered, so there’s a chance that Mama’s family doesn’t know what happened to her and why she suddenly disappeared.
I can’t stop thinking about the fact that my grandparents disapproved of Papa. All our lives, Val and I had been told that our grandparents were too far away, too busy, and there had always been an excuse for why we never heard from them. While the truth was that Papa had taken their daughter away from them.
The questions plague me now, filling me with the urge to show my father my discovery.
But what if he takes the letter from you?a voice in my head asks, causing me to hesitate.
What if he doesn’t? What if this is the thing that finally bridges the space between us? Excitement washes over me, and I jump out of the bed, intent on marching straight to his office to tell him about the letter.
Just then, there’s a knock at the door, and the knob begins to turn.
“Papa?” I ask slowly, breath catching in my throat.
“Giulia, what are you doing in there? Open the door.” He sounds annoyed already, and it makes me fly into action.
“Fifteen seconds, Papa!” I call out. “I’m just changing out of these stained clothes.”
I fold back the letter, tuck it into the cereal box, and toss it into the space under the floorboards. I race to the other side of the bed and put my shoulder into pushing it back into place against the wall.
Sweat pours down my face and makes loose tendrils of hair stick to my face. I push the strands away from my face, take off my apron, and rush to the door, unlocking it.
I’m panting with exertion by the time Papa’s tall frame comes into view. My mouth is just curving into a pleased smile, thinking he’s changed his mind about spending the afternoon with me, when he suddenly thrusts a girl in my direction.
My eyes widen, and I reel back, staring at the girl with a mixture of shock and suspicion. She’s a little older than me, and her big, brown eyes stare back at me with matching suspicion.
“Who is she?” I ask, pouting.
“Meet Isabella,” he says. “Your cousin.”
I jolt. “Cousin? I’ve never heard of any cousins.”
His mouth presses into a thin line, and he reluctantly adds, “She’s from your mother’s side. I’ll let you two get acquainted. As a matter of fact, why don’t you watch that movie with her?”
My heart sinks to my belly. “But it’s our movie.” I hate the childish whine in my voice.
I swing my gaze over to the taller girl, who’s staring between Papa and me with confusion etched into her face. All of a sudden, the confusion clears on her face, and she sniffs.
“What’s burning?”
Oh no!
6
RAFFAELE
Raffaele—13 years old
“If we can get Frankie D’Amato’s handshake on it, we’ll be able to get our trucks through the north side.” Father takes a drag of his cigar, his gaze idly scanning over the field.
The first time my father dragged me to one of his weekend getaways, I spent the entire time counting down the seconds until we could go home. I don’t want to be around my father longer than necessary, nor do I want to get familiar with the ‘family business.’
Guns, drugs, women—they sound fascinating in movies and books, but the reality of it is far different.
Each time my fingers curl around the handle of a gun, I’m struck with the frightening realization that one day I will have to shoot at a real person and not a dummy.
