Page 1 of Owned By the Italian Mafia Don

Chapter One

Rosie

Life gets harder as I get older and I’m getting tired of it. My family’s dream is exhausting and, a long time ago it used to be mine too; but after running myself ragged, after being too exhausted to do anything other than work and sleep, their dream is no longer mine. My parents own a general store called O’Connor’s. It’s named after our family and, when they were young, the shop did really well; but now, people buy what they need online, and the business my parents poured blood, sweat, and tears into, is failing. I don’t see us making it another year.

Medical bills are behind. The rent is two months past due and the only reason our landlord is not evicting us is because he has known my parents for thirty years. If it weren’t for that, we’d be sleeping in this store. Something has to change. Even right now, the electricity in my parents’ apartment is off, and I need to scrounge another fifty dollars to get it turned on.

My eyes begin to burn with frustrated tears, and I stop moving boxes to try and catch my breath. Pressing my palms against my eyes I take a deep breath, but my emotions are too strong. I’m too damn tired. I’m so sick of caring, but I have to, and I feel like I’m the only one who gives a shit about this business, too.

My parents don’t come here. My brother is always off doing who knows what and I’m left here, trying my damn best to make ends meet. I’m not sure how much longer I can do this before I break, before I quit, but what kind of person would that make me if I quit on my family? I can’t do that to them even though they have done it to me. They left me with this store and now I’m stuck unless I want my family to be homeless.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. It won’t be like this forever. You’re fine. This is temporary.” It’s something I always end up saying to myself, hoping one day I’ll believe it. It isn’t that easy though. I’ve been saying it for years and the situation only ever gets worse.

A box falls to the ground, flour bags spilling all over the floor, and it’s the last straw. I scream, kicking the box and the flour bags. White dust flies everywhere. I yell with every ounce of air I have in my lungs until I run out of breath. I sob, sliding down the front desk until I hit the floor. Flour somehow got on my hands, but I don’t care. I hide my face in my palms while I cry.

I no longer have the energy to do this. I no longer have the will to be the only one keeping my family afloat.

When do my hopes matter? When do my dreams and wants matter? No one has ever cared. It’s always been about me taking care of them. I’ve dedicated everything. I’ve drained my savings account to keep food on the table and electricity running in the home.

I have nothing to my name now because they had nothing to theirs. All those jobs worked when I was younger, every dime pinched and saved in hopes to buy my own house one day, gone.

I know I’m bitter. I know that. I know I’m selfish and I’m being a bad daughter and sister, but when do I stop being all that for them, and where does that leave my family? I can’t stop, right? I can’t stop being what they need me to be. It isn’t fair to them.

But it isn’t fair to me either.

The back of my head hits the counter and the sharp, but quick pain, has me opening my eyes. I wipe the tears away with the back of my hand, flour clumping together on my skin from added moisture. Something has to give.

Or break.

And it’s me. I’m the one breaking.

I look around at the mess I made and new tears begin to form. Why should I bother cleaning it up? It’s not like any customers will come into the store.

“Come on, Rosie. Get your shit together. You won’t let this beat you.” I give myself a nice pep talk, the same one I give more often than not, because lately it seems like everything is hard, everything in this world takes every ounce of fucking energy I have. I know I’m not the only one. It’s like this for a lot of people right now.

I take another look around the shop; flour is still everywhere. I don’t know what I expected. Perhaps, it would magically disappear? I groan, hang my head, and rub my temples as a headache pulses. The slight outburst of anger wasn’t worth it because the flour isn’t going to clean itself up.

“You’re done with your pity party,” I tell myself, pushing to my feet. “You’re an idiot, Rosie.” I rub the back of my neck and open the supplies closet, gathering the broom and dustpan.

I go to walk away, but my belt loop gets caught on the door handle, which for some reason sends my temper to explosive mode again. I drop the broom and slip the belt loop out from the handle, then slam the closet door. I bang on it so hard, my hands begin to hurt.

It’s going to be one of those days where if I drop the keys on the ground, I’m going to think it’s the biggest inconvenience and grumble profanities under my breath while I pick them up.

I hate days like that, where everything is a big deal when really it isn’t.

Bending over, I pick up the broom and start sweeping up the problem I caused. I wipe my forehead when I begin to sweat. The air conditioning stopped working a few days ago but we can’t afford to fix it, so it’s been miserable.

I throw my wild curly hair in a messy bun to at least get it off my sweaty neck and stand in front of the box fan for a few minutes. It’s blowing dry, hot air but it’s better than nothing, right?

The doorbell chimes and I hold my breath, hoping it’s a customer but it’s just my younger brother, Caplan.

“I fucked up. Sis, oh god, I fucked up.” He slams the door, locks it, and laces his fingers behind his neck.

I drop the broom when I see the bruises on his face. “Oh my god, Caplan. What happened?” I hurry to the front door and flip the sign to close. “Who did this to you?” I grip his chin, turning his head left and right. He has a black eye and a split lip. One hand is holding his side as if he has been kicked. “Who did this to you?” I repeat, my tone getting darker.

I might bitch about my family, and I might be sick and tired of our situation, which I’m allowed to be because I’m human, but no one fucks with my family. No one.

“No, Sis, you don’t get it. I fucked up.” He hits his chest and his eyes become glassy with tears. “We can’t be here. We can’t be seen here.” He rushes to the widows and closes the blinds, then peeks out from them. “I don’t know why I did it. No, I do know why. I’m sorry, okay? Rosie, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You have to believe me. I just wanted to help.”

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