Page 3 of The Mafia's Bride
He was an awful man. The clothing and jewelry, the extravagant presents weren’t done to make me feel special—for any of us kids to feel special. It was a way to own us, to use us as his walking trophies. A literal billboard sign promoting his wealth. I pawned most of what he gave me, used the money for drugs and booze or gave the stuff to my friend Danica to wear. I never wanted anything from him. Because it was never given freely, out of love, there was always a catch.
The mahogany casket is laid with brass knobs, a few Gaelic blessings carved into the wood. The hole is black, compacted with wet dirt, the fake grass covering the top a bright contrast to how dark everything is. Even the sky has darkened, the grey turning charcoal, as if my father is showing his displeasure from the grave.
I wouldn’t doubt it.
For a man larger-than-life, who was used to getting everything he wanted with power or force, it’s a rather anticlimactic ending.
He deserved so much worse. A heart attack at his desk, a cigar in one hand, a glass of aged whiskey in the other? Most men would hope to go out that way. He got off easy.
I kick out my feet, willing the coldness in my limbs to leave. A wave of pins and needles radiates up my legs and arms, pinching my nerves until my entire body shivers uncomfortably. The congregationis silent, listening to the last remaining prayers. Even the crows have stopped cawing, taking a moment of silence.
I’d rather be anywhere than here right now. Anywhere but here, fighting off the last bit of winter as spring tries to shine, and fighting the overwhelming urge to run; or the urge to find the closest person and fuck them until neither of us know what day it is.
My father thought women should be seen and not heard. We were meant to be married to men, produce children, and care for the home. Under no circumstances were we to enjoy sex—or God forbid—have sex outside of marriage.
Pops hated me because I am not a typical woman. I like sex, I enjoy booze and have used more drugs than I know what to do with, while having relationships with both women and men. I was the opposite of what my father wanted—and he hated that he couldn’t change me.
That hate he gave me, threw at me as if my choices, my life, were the reason for his spite, grew into something deeper than shame. Deeper than guilt. I became numb to everything. Numb to life, to his rants and abuse. Numb to the neglect and avoidance. Justnumb.
Right now, that numbness is fighting for dominance as I scan the crowd, take in their weary and wet faces. The rain seems to grow harder, dousing the candles by the rows of flowers, pelting into the priest who prattles on about heaven, about how my father will be at rest.
I’m not religious, but I know that’s not the case. Not with who my father was.
I hold my mother’s simple gold cross at my throat and tuck it back into my warmth. I don’t care that it was a woman who I don’t remember—I can pretend. I can pretend I remember this as being hers, and pretend to feel her presence when I’m in need of comfort. Comfort I didn’t get from anyone else in my family, comfort I need right now to not feel so alone.
As if pulled, my eyes drift, locking with Maeve in the back of the crowd. She stands resolutely, a ghoul surrounded by mourners, staring across their heads as the wind sweeps her dark hair behindher shoulders. She doesn’t move, doesn’t smile, just stares at me, seeing things too deep for me to cover.
I try not to shudder. Her eyes are so cold, yet she sees everything. She’s always been like that.
When I was younger, I desperately looked up to Maeve. She was strong, unflinching. I knew Pops let her into the clan business, let her know things he would never tell me. I wanted to be just like her—just as strong and unbreakable.
That was when I was little, though. Now, after Pops used his hands to try and mold me into the perfect daughter and she never stopped it? A burning ball of rage glows into my stomach whenever I see her.
She never stopped him. Never intervened. She just let him yell and hit and throw things. She never protected me and it sours all those childish fantasies that put her on a pedestal. Now, I see her for the raging bitch that she is, unable—or unwilling—to protect me from our monster of a parent.
Green eyes flash as she reads something on my face before looking back to the casket.
Cool delicate hands grip my umbrella, a slender body sliding under with me. The scent of freshly baked macarons on a warm morning overlooking a busy Parisian Street, wraps around me like a hug. I inhale, basking in the scent of my older sister, Collins, and lean into her warmth.
She’s always so warm. I wish I could suck it up and get rid of this inner numbness.
“Heard from Briar?” she asks, keeping her voice pitched low.
I sigh, kicking out my toes again. They’ve gone numb just like the ball of emotions in my gut. “No. Not since I told him about Pops.”
Briar hasn’t been home in almost four years. My younger brother by ten months, he doesn’t remember our mother and had a tense relationship with Pops too. I wish I knew why, but one day after he turned fifteen, he stole a bunch of stuff from Pops’ office and left. The only reason Pops never went after him was because it would be seen as a weakness; Ferguson O’Brien couldn’t control one of his children,how would that look for his Irish clan, his criminal enterprise? He’d be ridiculed – or worse.
So he let Briar leave and forbade us from ever speaking to him again.
As far as I knew, I’m the only one he answers via text.
“Are you okay?” Collins asks, tone worried. I can barely hear her over the clap of thunder behind us. The priest is still going, the storm not stopping his fervor.Will he ever stop?
“Oh, you know, just fantastic,” I quip, frowning down at my shoes. “I always wanted to ruin my Chanel heels while burying my father.”
She rolls her familiar green eyes, pushing her thick rimmed glasses further up her nose. The same eyes our mother had, the same ones all of the kids inherited. Maeve’s eyes are always cold, but Collins looks at me now, a mixture of light and sorrow pinching her brow, aging her beyond her young twenty-three years of life.
Collins was Pops’ favorite. She’s the smart one, the kind one, the one who was still pure in his eyes. Maeve was a hardened killer, and I slept with half the football team before the end of freshman year of high school, but Collins? Collins was perfect.
