Queen of the mafia

01

Helen

Is it considered an omen if my story begins with a funeral? Maybe I'm being selfish since it's not my funeral. Or maybe I'm not being humble enough by pretending that's when my story started. The word story seems redundant. Maybe nightmare is a better word.

Maybe I should start at the beginning. My name is Elena Morelli and I am twenty-four years old. I work with my family in our bakery, it has been in our family for generations. It was a small shop around the corner from the bus stop, but no one prepared delicate Italian pastries and desserts like us.

These were all my nonnas recipes passed down from her mom and her mom before that. It was so quiet to be in the bakery where I was no one but myself. I wasn't someone's daughter or sister.

I was just Elena, and Elena was just the happiest when she cooked. The bakery was a front for a lot of my father and brother's transactions, but if I closed my eyes hard enough, I didn't mind. I didn't mind that Enzo hated me working, and I didn't mind that my mother would rather I get married and have a hundred children.

The only person I trusted with my soul was my nonna and my father. My father spent most of his days in bed with an oxygen tank, and I spent my time reading stories to him or telling him all the new flavor combinations that I had thought of and written.

He couldn't talk much, his voice crackled and hoarse, but he smiled and nodded at me. It was always enough. I was smiling and nodding my head back. Enzo was my older brother, and once our father got sick, he took over the family business.

The illegitimate family business. We were Italian. Proud Italians. We were also the well-known Morelli. The Morelli were known for our expansive and expensive weapons and heroin. My brother took over the transactions and everything related to business since my father could not get out of bed.

Enzo was more ambitious than my father and much more greedy. He did not do things the way our father did, choosing instead to do everything more savagely and brutally. He was more murderous than my father and claimed that death and violence were the only way to keep our enemies afraid of us and at a distance.

We had a pact with the Russians, but when my father forcibly retired and Enzo took over, the Russians became suspicious of a man who had no morale and cut ties. I didn't know much about the world of Costa Nostra, but I was smart enough to know who our enemies were. Besides the Russians, the Irish were the second Crowd that Enzo hated with all his soul.

The Irish mafia was ruthless and was very well known throughout Nevada. They were dealing with drugs, alcohol and explosives. Their professions were expanding all over the state, and I knew that Enzo hated the success of their leader.

Callahan's Irish mob was dangerous and threatening; from what I heard, their boss was a violent savage. No one really knew what he looked like, and the gossip around Henderson was that you never get two chances with him.

It was rumored that he had killed his men and his wife and that he would not hesitate to sacrifice his own family for his greed and ambition. There were a lot of discussions like this about mafia boss Callahan, but no one really knew what his deal was.

No one has ever come close enough to find out. Our world was terrifying, and Enzo ensured my safety by having his men guard inside and outside the bakery. His men were as ruthless and as violent as Enzo, all but one. Marcelo Gallo.

He was my brother's second-hand man, and I always had the biggest crush on him. Of course, it wasn't mutual since Enzo would probably kill a man for touching me, but I still appreciated and loved Marcelo from afar. He was a few years older than me and was not only skillful with his gun, but he was smart and funny, and kind to me.

Marcelo rarely spoke to me, only when he had to, but sometimes I caught him looking at me. Despite my brother's authoritarian tendencies, I was not a virgin, but the stricter Enzo became, the more difficult it was to have a social life.

The only people I had close to me were my cousins and my family. Enzo didn't trust a soul outside of himself, which showed when he spoke with our family. The world we lived in was cruel like that, it was sometimes untrustworthy, and I guess Enzo knew better than I did about such aspects.

I didn't know much about drugs, money or the illegal measures taken by my father, Enzo, and his men. I knew things were going in and out of a kitchen. I knew cooking and baking. I more than enjoyed cooking and decorating.

I didn't mind that it wasn't feminist of me to like being in a kitchen, but fuck, I did. I wasn't smart like Enzo, but my father insisted that I take combat lessons and go to the shooting range, and I knew how to take care of myself well enough.

Fortunately, I never had the opportunity to test my skills. It was a typical Monday morning; the sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and I sang and danced with my cousins in the back room while we prepared the fillings and creams.

So quiet. Until it wasn't.

Marcelo and Gio entered the kitchen, where we were preparing the desserts. All my brother's men wore the same uniform. All black. They always had guns on them and spoke Italian and English. Enzo demanded that all his men have short hair so that they would not be quickly overpowered, and Marcelo was no different.

"Elena," spoke Marcelo.

His dark eyes seemed stern as he led me along. I put the bowl on, whipped and grabbed a towel to dry my hands.

"What is it? »

"It's your ... father. Unfortunately, he passed away. »

"W-What? No, it can't be. He's all right. I saw him this morning. »

First step; denial.

"Why are you lying about this? Why would you say such things? "I shouted at him.

Second stage; anger.

"No! No! "I shouted. "You lie! »

Second stage; anger.

They don't tell you how long you stay in the second stage, but I wanted to stay there forever. I wanted to live there. I wanted to be angry for the rest of my life. It hurt to be sad and cry because I wasn't at that stage of acceptance. I was just angry. I couldn't stop screaming, I couldn't stop smashing everything that was closest to me.

When I finally collapsed, I wish I had stayed in bed. My father was my whole world. He was my best friend and the only person I liked to be around besides my nonna. It felt like a betrayal to know that God had taken it but spared me.

I was angry that he had died and left me behind, and I hated myself every day for blaming him. My mother's screams and cries filled the vast house in which we lived, and at night all you could hear was my nonna praying.

I spent the nights before the funeral in her room, on her bed, clinging to her fragile body while she whispered prayers in my ear and played with my hair. It hurt to remember him the way my nonna wanted to be remembered. It hurt to know that he had passed away; although it passed peacefully, it still did nothing to relieve the pain and ache in my chest.

Enzo took care of the funeral arrangements, and even though all we had to do was show up, it didn't make the experience any less painful or less exhausting. It was exhausting to bury him. It was nerve-wracking to hear people talking about him.

I felt like a ticking time bomb, so close to exploding. I felt like an active volcano about to erupt. I was filled to the brim with anger, remorse and this revolting feeling of betrayal. We had barely put my father on the floor when Enzo dragged me into his office to talk business.

Enzo was my older brother, and I respected him a lot, but we were never close in the traditional family sense. He sat down where my father used to sit and invited me to sit in the chair in front of his desk.

I didn't feel good to see him sitting there in a chair that my father used to sit in. He felt corrupt, or maybe it was too fast. I couldn't be sure. Enzo's colored hair was cut and short, always in that military style cut with big observant and demanding hazel eyes.