Page 13 of Broken Mafia Prince
“Not now, Giulia.” When, then? I wonder, but manage to keep the words locked in.
I watch him walk over to where the scary men are positioned. To my surprise, one of them steps aside and Papa gets into the back seat of the car. Before I can see more, a shadow falls over me, blocking them from view.
“Oh, darling. This must be so difficult for you.” An older woman shakes her head sympathetically. “I can just imagine how you’re feeling.”
She can’t imagine. Val was an extension of me, and Mama was the pillar of our home. With them gone, everything is crumbling, and I feel like half of a person now. Like something important has been ripped away from me.
“I just want to let you know that we’re all here for you,” she continues, then blows her nose into her tissue. “It’s the most tragic thing. I can’t believe it.”
It’s like they’re all taking turns, one after another, coming to express their condolences, telling me how sorry they are for my loss, how they’re just a phone call away if I need anything. I don’t know what they think I’ll need them for, but I don’t care to ask.
“You’re young enough,” one woman says. “Children are known for forgetting. You’ll get over this in no time.”
“Has your father talked to you about your future?” an uncle chimes in, puffing out a cloud of smoke. “There’s a boarding school not far from here.”
“I’m four,” I retort.
The man studies me carefully, and then he shrugs. “So?”
Behind him, I spy Papa sipping on a glass of whiskey at the far corner of the room. He looks lost in unpleasant thoughts, and everyone steers clear of him. I start to move toward him, but Donatella blocks my path like a rash that won’t go away.
She’s not really my aunt—she’s some distant cousin of Papa’s. But everyone calls her that, and I can’t bring myself to care. All I know is that she’s been attached to him like a leech since the funeral, and it makes my skin crawl.
Donatella isn’t grieving. She’s… performing.
As usual, she’s wearing a black dress that hugs her figure in a way that’s inappropriate for a memorial, and the neckline plunges down her chest, revealing a good amount of her cleavage. My fingers curl into fists at my side as I watch her whisper something that makes him offer her a tiny smile.
Hurt, betrayal, and envy slice through me as I see that smile.
Papa’s barely said two words to me since the accident, but here he is, smiling at her like everything’s normal.
Her heels click sharply on the floor as she follows him around, her laugh cutting through the murmurs in the room like nails on a chalkboard.
“Enrico,” she says sultrily, her voice dripping with fake concern. “You’re handling all of this so well. I don’t know how you’re managing.”
Papa doesn’t say much in response. He just nods, his face a mask of polite detachment. But he doesn’t pull away from her either, and that’s what makes my blood boil.
I can’t stop watching them. She leans into him every chance she gets, her hand resting lightly on his arm or brushing against his shoulder. Every time she moves, it’s like she’s putting on a show for everyone in the room.
How can she act like this? How can she stand there, draped over my papa, when Mama hasn’t even been gone a full month?
I press my nails into my palms, focusing on the dull ache to keep myself from saying something I’ll regret.
Donatella isn’t the only one hovering around Papa, but she’s the worst of them.
At least the other relatives have the decency to keep their distance, offering their condolences without overstaying their welcome. But Donatella doesn’t seem to understand boundaries.
“Oh, I’m here if you need anything at all, dear cousin,” she coos, tilting her head as she gazes up at him. Her fingers trail down his sleeve, lingering just a little too long.
I don’t know what I hate more: The way she says it, like she’s offering more than just emotional support, or the fact that Papa doesn’t tell her to stop.
“Are you listening, child?” The man snaps his fingers in front of my face, prompting me to switch my attention back to the man. “What happened is a tragedy, but life has to move on. You understand? You have to start thinking of school and?—”
“Allow the poor girl to mourn,” Donatella’s husky voice cuts in when she approaches, causing me to shudder in revulsion. There’s just something about her that makes me uneasy, and I can’t understand why Papa puts up with her.
She’s nothing like Mama. Mama’s presence was soothing. She spoke softly and smiled with her whole face. She always smelled like whatever amazing thing she had decided to bake that day.
There’s nothing about the blonde standing before me now wearing a lopsided smirk.
