Page 83 of Mafia Fire

Under my bed.

Holding my mother’s leather-bound book in my hands makes me ache for her.

A single tear trails down my cheek, falling from my chin and dampening the page. My brothers hate when I cry. They see it as a woman’s weakness, to shed tears. They like to punish me when they find me crying.

My heart falls as I hear heavy footsteps headed right to me. Ignoring the closed door, Antonio, my oldest and most vicious brother, disturbs my peace. With bold green eyes, straight dark hair down to his shoulders, and high cheekbones, he’d almost be handsome if his heart weren’t so charred. He throws open the heavy door.

The hard look on his angled face berates me before he even opens his mouth. His green eyes glitter with meanness. “Ah, the little bird is reading.”

I’m slight but strong and he calls me little bird. It’s his joke about me being small and held in this cage that is our crumbling mansion.

“You know I hate when you call me that.” I dip my nose deeper in my book. “Please, go away.”

He rips the book out of my hands.

My chest tightens at the sight of him holding such a precious belonging. Antonio has a habit of destroying beautiful things.

“Don’t!” I grab for it, terrified he’ll toss it in the fire.

He holds it just out of my reach, a cruel smile curling at the corners of his tormenting lips. He tosses it to the floor. It flutters open, landing facedown. I scoop the book up, grateful it’s safe in my hands and not in the fireplace.

“There’s a special place in hell for people who disrespect books like you do.” I smooth the pages, close it gently, and lay the leather-bound book on the table beside my wingback chair.

My brother moves in close. Too close. I can feel heat and anger coming off him. The scent of whiskey pours from his mouth.

The tips of his fingers dig into my skin as he pulls me from my chair. I try to pull myself from his grasp but he’s too strong.

He grips my upper arm, holding it tight. “You need to get over her.”

“I’m fine. I was just reading, minding my own business—”

“No,” he sneers. “You were crying.”

“Get over her? Is that what you’re doing with all that whiskey? Forgetting her?” I stare at Antonio, remembering when we were kids how he begged my mother to tell him stories about her childhood, growing up in the countryside. “Why do you all drink yourselves silly on this night, then? Is it random, or are you hurting too?”

My words anger him. How dare I suggest that he, too, is weak in the absence of our mother. I see venom rising in his face. Fury flashes in his gaze.

“Shut up.” He gives me a hard shove, his hand returning between my shoulder blades as he pushes me out of the library. “And go to bed. You don’t need to be down here.”

“Fine. I’m going. Enjoy your poison.” I move toward the stairs.

He watches me briefly to be sure I obey. I turn my face away, grabbing the smooth banister. I release a deep breath when he finally leaves me, turning down the hall to rejoin our brothers.

The door to my father’s study closes, the lock clicking behind him. Deep voices rumble down the long, dark hall. Funny. Usually when they drink, they get loud, laughing or fighting. Tonight, their tones are dull, serious. What are they discussing? Leaving the stairs, I creep down the hall, pressing an ear against the wood.

My heart hammers against my ribcage, fearful of what Antonio will do to me if he catches me. I focus on their voices, but I can’t make out the words. Maybe the surname Bachman? They’re another mafia family, more powerful than mine, that recently moved to the lakefront.

The men are talking so low, I can’t be sure that’s what I heard. The only sound I hear clearly is the blood whooshing past my eardrum. They’re up to no good, I’m sure.

Hate and nerves prick at my skin, making me uneasy. I need to get out of this prison. I need to feel the night air on my skin, release some endorphins. I need a run. Time for this little bird to fly from her cage.

I’m wearing biker shorts and a cropped tee from my earlier bodyweight workout in the garden. I just need to grab my shoes, and I’ll be gone. I’m experienced at going unnoticed.

Leaving the door to my father’s study, I tiptoe toward the massive foyer. My worn sneakers sit ready by the front door. I slip them on. I grab the ornate metal doorknob, its carvings cold in my hand. The door creaks as I open it.

I flinch, squeezing my eyes shut tight and freezing in place like a little kid. If I don’t move, they can’t see me.

No one comes.

---