Queen of 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.