Chapter 2
1378 Words
Valentina De Luca
13 years old
Palermo, six years later
Mother pulls my hair into a severe bun as she prepares me for ballet class, and it’s hard not to tell her how much I simply hate it. My feet hurt—always bruised—and classical music irritates me completely, but I remain in silent fury while she decorates me like a princess.
It is in moments like these that she shows me how much she loves me, since she rarely does when the whole family is gathered. My father does not like to see us like this, so she reminds me every day how I should behave, the care I must take.
Dante De Luca says love is a weakness, and that Gianna, my mother, cannot raise useless children—especially me, whatever that means. Over time, I learned to behave and avoid trouble, but sometimes I simply forget.
There was no freedom for women in the Family.
Gianna tries to hide the bruise on her shoulder and lowers her gaze, pretending not to see it. She always says I must not look, and I obey, even though I understand nothing—except that my head aches from this tight bun. She fixes her own messy hair after leaving me perfect and smiles at me through the mirror.
“Perfect, my girl.”
“It hurts!” I complain, and she just shakes her head, because I always do. “Why can’t I stay with Paolo and Raoul?” I protest, referring to my brothers.
While the boys are initiated, the girls learn to embroider. They already handle weapons, and I know etiquette rules by heart.
Since I was little, everyone around me has made sure I understand how we live.
I take my ballet shoes from the closet and fix my bag, watching Mom cover the bruise with makeup as she waits for me. I shake my head, remembering last night, feeling my eyes burn because I couldn’t do anything to help her. Not even she allows it.
“Mom, why do you let Dad do this?”
A tear slips out, and she swallows before answering.
“Men are our guides and protectors. If he corrects me, it’s because I made a mistake. Just as I do with you and your brothers. If I teach you this, dear, it’s for your safety…” she hesitates. “You must love your father. Just as one day you must do the same with your husband.”
The tears fall harder, and she avoids the conversation, ordering me to go ahead since a soldier will take me to ballet.
There have been many tears since she started shaping me at seven, and today these are just more of them.
I walk down the stairs, and the house is too quiet.
I hear laughter in the garden and find my brothers playing with a knife. On tiptoe, I approach, because it’s surely more fun than my class.
I see the blade in Paolo’s hands, shining under the sun, and I smile, because they have always fascinated me—even though I’m never allowed to touch them. My father calls them from the south wing, and they run to him, leaving everything behind.
I wait for silence to return and look at the tools of men of honor. There is blood on the one Paolo was using, and I can’t resist running my fingers over it.
“I told you not to touch my things!”
Paolo is only three years older, but a thousand times more unbearable.
“I was just looking!”
“Do you want to know what we were doing? Perfect!”
He grabs my arm and nearly smashes my face against the remains of a little bird they destroyed.
I scream, and everything happens too fast.
He pins me down and, with his other hand, cuts into the palm of my hand. Blood pours out, staining my uniform.
There’s so much that I feel dizzy, but I manage to escape and run. I scream “Mom,” but she doesn’t appear.
I don’t know what to do. Everything happens by instinct.
I cross the hall, run through the garden, and enter the south wing.
Forbidden.
But I don’t care.
I walk into the room where the men are gathered. My father turns red when he sees me, then forces a tight smile.
“What are you doing here?”
“My hand…”
“Who did that to you?”
“Paolo! I didn’t do anything, Dad…”
“Valentina, dear, you probably deserved it.”
Did I deserve to be stabbed?
They all laugh.
“He stabbed me! It’s horrible—he does to me the same thing you do to Mom!”
Silence.
I realize the mistake.
“That’s wrong… it’s unfair…”
The blow comes.
Blood. Again.
“You never betray anyone. You never speak.”
His voice is cold.
“You just betrayed your brother, Valentina. You just disrespected your father and these men of honor.”
The underboss, Giácomo Sartori, looks at me… and for the first time, I feel fear.
Real fear.
Now I understand.
To betray is to break the family.
To break the code.
And from the mafia… you only leave in death.
“A little traitor,” he says. “Do you know what we do with traitors?”
No.
And I don’t want to know.
The door opens.
Mom walks in.
“Please… no.”
The underboss sighs.
“The girl needs tending. Her integrity is important to all of us…”
He strokes my hair.
“She will recover. She will be a beautiful woman.”
Then he leaves.
Mom is terrified. She takes me out of there.
Later, in my room, she tends to me in silence.
“It wasn’t on purpose,” I say.
“I know…”
Night falls.
“Promise me you’ll be careful. Silence can be a weapon… and a shield.”
“I promise.”
“I love you, my girl.”
“I love you, Mom.”
She stays with me until I fall asleep.
Believing everything is over.
That there will be no consequences.
How foolish I am.
I wake up suddenly, dazed, with a chill down my neck and a horrible sound. I hear screams and muffled noises. They are more intense than usual—and much longer, too.
They are always brief.
They always end.
Not tonight.
Minutes pass after the first scream. My fear tells me to stay curled up in bed, but my instinct to protect pushes me into the hallway.
Our house is very large, and its size keeps certain things from being heard or seen—especially in the south wing. But sounds like the ones coming from my parents’ room… I had only heard them in the forbidden area, when I hid among the trees, not brave enough to go in and discover who the screams belonged to.
That was… until my stupidity last night.
I freeze on the landing, staring at Paolo’s door, still closed. Raoul shut his the moment I opened mine. Their rooms face each other, both separating me from my parents’ room at the end of the hallway. If I can hear the screams from here, for my brothers it must be like standing inside. Maybe the sound pounds in their ears.
I don’t understand Raoul’s cowardice or Paolo’s indifference—nor why I’m the only one here thinking about how to help. I keep moving forward, listening to that torturous sound, unsure whether it is crying or pain.
Her moans grow louder, and I can hear the impact of my father’s hands against her. It is harsher and more frequent than anything I have ever witnessed.
She’s fading.
I have to do something, even though I know knocking on the door will only make it worse. I take a few steps back and hit the wall, knocking down a framed photo of our family. The impact is sharp, the sound echoing across the wooden floor.
Immediately, the noises stop, and the handle turns.
For one second of faith, I allow myself to believe it will be Mom.
It wasn’t her.
It was him.
- Writer
