Queen of the mafia

e

nce it's not my funeral. Or maybe I'm not being humble enough by pretending that's whe

rk with my family in our bakery, it has been in our family for generations. It was a small shop arou

er mom before that. It was so quiet to be in the bakery where I

ther and brother's transactions, but if I closed my eyes hard enough, I didn't mind. I didn't mind that Enzo

ost of his days in bed with an oxygen tank, and I spent my time reading stories to h

at me. It was always enough. I was smiling and nodding my head back. Enzo was m

elli. The Morelli were known for our expansive and expensive weapons and heroin. My brother took o

d, choosing instead to do everything more savagely and brutally. He was more murderous than my father a

s 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

ere dealing with drugs, alcohol and explosives. Their professions were expandi

eir boss was a violent savage. No one really knew what he looked like, an

e to sacrifice his own family for his greed and ambition. There were a lot of discus

Enzo ensured my safety by having his men guard inside and outside the bakery.

nce Enzo would probably kill a man for touching me, but I still appreciated and loved Marcelo from afar. He wa

king at me. Despite my brother's authoritarian tendencies, I was not a virgin,

e of himself, which showed when he spoke with our family. The world we lived in was cruel like t

father, Enzo, and his men. I knew things were going in and out of a kitche

I did. I wasn't smart like Enzo, but my father insisted that I take combat lessons

nday morning; the sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and I sang and danc

Until it

same uniform. All black. They always had guns on them and spoke Italian and English. Enzo demanded that

spoke M

me along. I put the bowl on, whipped

is i

her. Unfortunately

be. He's all right. I

step;

is? Why would you say such

stage;

shouted. "

stage;

ere. 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 acc

world. He was my best friend and the only person I liked to be around besides

day for blaming him. My mother's screams and cries filled the vast house

s 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

show up, it didn't make the experience any less painful or less exhausting. It wa

erupt. I was filled to the brim with anger, remorse and this revolting feeling of betrayal. W

er close in the traditional family sense. He sat down where my father

felt corrupt, or maybe it was too fast. I couldn't be sure. Enzo's colored hair was cut