Page 9 of Broken Mafia Prince
Father’s expression had frozen, his jaw tightening like he’d been personally insulted. He didn’t yell—he never really did—but his silence cut deeper than any reprimand.
The next morning, he announced I would no longer attend school. “I cannot afford more public embarrassment,” he had said, his voice devoid of any emotion. “You’ll be homeschooled from now on. No distractions. No room for failure.”
I’d tried to argue. “It wasn’t that bad?—”
“It was bad enough,” he interrupted, his eyes boring into mine. “This family is built on perfection. If you can’t meet the standard, you won’t represent this name outside these walls.”
And just like that, my world shrank.
At first, I thought it might be a blessing in disguise. No more waking up at early hours, no more teachers who seemed more interested in tormenting students than educating them, no more fake friends who only cared about my family name. But now, as I sit in this cavernous house, I realize what a mistake I made thinking this could be better.
Being trapped here with my father is far from the escape I imagined.
I glance over at Mama, and I see that her expression has shuttered. The corners of her mouth are white with the tension of keeping her lips pressed into a thin line.
”I’ll clear the board, my son,” she tells me softly. She’s kneeling by the chess set, her delicate hands gathering the pieces one by one. She doesn’t look at me as she speaks, and somehow, that makes it worse. “Go. You’ll be fine.”
It’s the same thing she always says—those empty words meant to soothe, but they don’t. They never do.
I stand there for a moment, watching her. She’s so…fragile. That’s the only word for it. Her shoulders slope, as if carrying an invisible weight. Her movements are careful, precise, like someone trying not to break.
I want to ask her why she never stands up to him, why she lets him talk to me, to her, the way he does. But I already know the answer. She never says anything. Not to him, not to me. She just stays silent, enduring it all like a shadow fading into the background.
And that’s what I despise most about her. It’s the only thing I hate about her, honestly.
She’s kind, gentle in ways my father could never understand. She’s the one who introduced me to the world of books, taught me how to play chess, and showed me how to find beauty in the simplest things. But her silence—it drives me mad. It’s as if she’s accepted this life, resigned to being the perfect Gagliardi wife, even though it’s clear she’s miserable.
I know that’s how “made women” are raised to be—stoic, obedient, their voices silenced. But surely, there had to be those who rejected it, who refused to be confined to a life where their every move is dictated, where they’re treated like a piece of furniture. Were there women who fought against it? Women who lived for themselves, not just for their husbands or families. Weren’t there?
I nod and quickly leave, knowing he hates to be kept waiting. I make my way through the endless hallways, the thick red rugs beneath my feet a constant reminder of my father’s obsession with cleanliness. Expensive paintings line the walls, but I’m not bothered by them as much as the ones just outside his study. Those portraits are like ghosts, watching me, assessing me.
As I stand before his slightly ajar door, it feels like the faces of the men from the paintings are staring down at me with judgment. They all have the famous Gagliardi eyes—vivid blue and cold as ice. The fact that I also have them should make me feel connected to them, proud of my heritage, but all I feel is a deep hatred for genetics.
I raise my fist to knock on the heavy oak door, but it swings open before I can make contact. My father’s accountant stands there, his eyes locking onto my face. Horror flashes in them for a fleeting moment before he quickly looks away. I should be used to these reactions by now, but it still makes me flinch.
“Raffaele, come on in,figlio mio.” Father’s voice is calm, and it makes a shiver go down my spine.
I square my shoulders, forcing myself to step over the threshold. The study looms ahead, a room I loathe with every fiber of my being. It’s not just the suffocatingly dark decor—the heavy drapes, the deep mahogany shelves, the intimidating portraits of Gagliardi ancestors staring down at me—it’s what this room represents. Nothing good has ever happened to me within these four walls, and I know today won’t break that streak.
“Sit.” Father settles into his large leather chair, eyes pinned on me.
At my side, my tutor drops into one of the two seats across from Father, and I take the other. Uncomfortable silence fills the room while Father takes his time selecting a cigar from his box, clipping the end and lighting it up.
“Whiskey?” he offers, gesturing to Tony with a slight lift of the glass decanter on his desk.
“No, thank you, Don,” Tony replies, shaking his head so quickly it’s almost comical. His nervousness is palpable, and I wonder how much he’s being paid to sit here. Whatever the sum,I know it wouldn’t be enough for me to face Edoardo Gagliardi willingly.
“I hope you have good news for me today, Tony,” Father chuckles, leaning back into his high-backed chair.
Tony clears his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Yes, Mr. Gagliardi,” the tutor begins, and I perk up—until I hear his next words. “Raffaele’s essays and English have improved significantly.”
“Essays? English?” my father repeats, his blue eyes narrowing. “What the hell do I care about poetry and letters? All the time he puts in reading stupid books. I don’t expect him to be the next Shakespeare or Dickens. Who gives a crap about that? What about math? The sciences?”
Tony looks over at me, nervous, and I resign myself to whatever punishment I’ll get today. I hang my head, fingers clenched into fists in my lap.
I try so hard to follow the instructions, to listen and understand, but no matter how many times I study the notes, the numbers just don’t make sense.
“He has a D in math, history, and biology,” Tony says hesitantly. “A C in the others. But he has an A-plus in English.”
