Page 163 of Mila: The Godfather

Because you’re my one.

Your name is inked in my heart.

Waffle Cake & Willow Trees

RIAGAN

“Nothing you do will ever be wrong.” — R

“Make a wish, a sheòid,” Da says while he smiles at me proudly alongside all his men. Every year he throws me a big Irish-themed party with all the O’Sullivan members and their kids in attendance.

Today, I turned ten years old and just like all my birthdays before, he asked me to make a wish. I do as he says, not wanting to make him feel bad. Because I will if I show him how I truly feel inside. I’m all he has aside from his men and this city. I’m all that matters to him. My happiness is his priority. I know this too.

That is why I act like nothing hurts and that all is well because I know he needs me to be okay, but I don’t tell him I don’t have dreams or believe in wishing for shit.

I’m not a kid who believes in magic and unicorns like most children my age. I used to once, although I don’t remember much about those days.

All I do remember is that all my dreams and wishes faded to black when she left. My home was no longer full of light and laughter but sadness and fury.

My old man is not the same, not even when he pretends.

But I do pretend for him because he’s the most important person in my life.

That is the only reason why I close my eyes and blow out the ten candles as everyone cheers and whistles loudly around me.

Irish people know how to throw a party, and every year, my father goes above and beyond.

Expensive decorations and cool as fuck gifts.

Today, whereas a normal kid my age would get a video game or some shit like that for their tenth birthday, I got my first gun. I don’t mind it one bit.

All I ever wanted was to grow up and be like my grandfather and father.

Live the life they do.

Fast cars.

Fights.

Power.

It all calls out to me more than anything else.

But I also know that not even that can fill the hole that’s been slowly growing in my chest.

The void I feel.

Instead of communicating all this with my old man, I chose the easy route.

I smile wide for him.

For him and his men, even when it hurts.

Smiling hurts when you fake it.

I’ve been faking it for as long as I can remember.

“Atta, little man.” Da bends down and kisses my forehead, then ruffles my hair affectionately, and I wonder if it hurts him, too?

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