Page 32 of Broken Mafia Prince
Someday starts today.
He steps back, his breathing ragged as he straightens his suit jacket like he hasn’t just brutalized his own son. “Clean yourself up,” he spits, his voice dripping with disdain. “You’re a disgrace, Raffaele. And don’t think for a second that your little rebellion tonight will go unpunished. You’ll earn back your place in this family—or die trying.”
I don’t respond. I can’t. My throat feels raw, and my body trembles from the weight of what I’ve endured. But inside, something is shifting. It’s no longer about surviving his abuse or trying to gain his approval. It’s about something far more dangerous: taking everything he holds dear and tearing it apart, piece by piece.
As soon as he walks out, Emilio steps closer. His shadow looms over me as I struggle to push myself off the floor. “You’re lucky he didn’t kill you, boy.”
“Am I?” I rasp, my voice hoarse and laced with sarcasm. I stagger to my feet, clutching my ribs. “Or is that just what you’d prefer? Why’d you come back anyway?”
Emilio doesn’t respond. Instead, he nods toward the door. “Go clean yourself up. You look like shit.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say bitterly, limping past him. I know he’s loyal to my father, but there’s something in his tone—a sliver of unease—that makes me wonder if he’s starting to see through the cracks in Edoardo’s armor.
I turn and walk out of the study, ignoring the looks of the staff nearby. I’m sure they haven’t stopped wondering since the inception of their employment what sort of hellhole my life is.
My chest heaves as I make my way to my mother’s room.
The door is ajar when I arrive, and the sight inside hits me like a punch to the gut. The bed is rumpled, the faint smell of her perfume lingering in the air. On the nightstand, the pill bottle sits, its cap off and its contents spilled across the wood. Her body is still, her face pale, and there’s a heartbreaking peacefulness in her expression that makes the tears I’ve been holding back finally fall.
My bastard of a father hasn’t even arranged for her body to be taken out.
I sink to my knees beside the bed, my hands trembling as I reach for hers. They’re cold, and the realization crushes me. “I’m so sorry, Mama,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I should’ve been there for you. I should’ve done something.”
The grief feels unbearable, but beneath it, something else begins to stir—something sharp and unrelenting. Rage. Not the kind of wild anger that burns out quickly, but a cold, calculating inferno. My father will pay for this. For her. For everything.
I stand, wiping my face and glancing around the room one last time. My gaze lands on a framed photo of the two of us, taken years ago before everything went to hell. I slip it into my pocket before leaving the room, my resolve hardening with every step I take.
One way or another, I’ll make sure my father never gets to destroy anyone else’s life. Even if it means tearing down the entire empire he’s built.
The moment I’m alone in my room after arranging for my mother’s body to be taken away, I lock the door and collapse onto the bed, every muscle in my body screaming in protest.
My hand brushes against something in my pocket, and I pull out the framed photo of my mother. Her smile is warm, her eyes full of life, and it feels like a punch to the gut knowing I’ll never see that smile again.
“I’ll make him pay,” I whisper to the photo, my voice trembling. “I’ll make him regret every second he underestimated us. I’ll make the whole world see him for the monster he is.”
But I can’t do it alone. I’ll need allies—people who hate him as much as I do, people who are willing to tear apart his empire brick by brick. And there’s only one person who comes to mind, someone who once told me the world was bigger than this life my father trapped me in.
Giulia.
Hazel eyes flash in my mind again, and for the first time in years, I feel a flicker of hope. I don’t know where she is or if she’ll even talk to me, but if I’m going to take down Edoardo, I need to start somewhere.
“Someday starts today,” I repeat to myself one last time. My father thinks he’s invincible, but I’ll prove him wrong. The world will be mine. And I’ll make sure he lives long enough to see it crumble around him.
But first, I’m going to find her.
9
GIULIA
Giulia—16 years old
There’s something honestly intimate about firing a gun. The focus it demands, the weight of it in your hand, anchoring you, the jolt of the recoil when you fire. It all feels raw and personal, like a ritual you can’t fully explain but understand in your bones.
I watch with quiet satisfaction as the bullet pierces the tin can hanging from a tree branch. Bull’s-eye.
The first time I held a gun, I was a nervous wreck, imagining every possible way things could go wrong. For some reason, the thought of shooting myself in the foot terrified me the most. But all that fear had been buried under elation when my father had looked over from where he’d been talking to one of hisassociates—a made man in our circle—and gave me a nod.
“Nice shot, kid.” Those words had stuck with me, replaying in my head all day and echoing in my dreams that night.
