Mafia Puppet

FRANCESCA

I’M BORED. Mya can barely speak to me without shaking, and the house is empty. I’ve spent the last few hours fielding congratulatory calls from my cousins and the other society wives.

Eventually, I get bored and start ignoring the calls that aren’t really important. It’s a mean thing to do, but I don’t feel good about this alliance. The congratulations feel like slaps in the face.

The house is large and well-designed, with a color scheme of gold, white, and black. It reminds me of my own house, but this one is bigger. Two dark staircases connect at the top.

At the bottom, where they split, there’s a small, round glass table with fake flowers in a vase. A little further on are the double doors that lead outside.

From the top of the stairs, I can see parts of the living room and the halls leading to the kitchen and basement. I decide to check those out later. I want to get a better look at my new house.

So far, nothing seems too appealing or different. Growing up in a rich family, all these fancy things aren’t new to me.

The upstairs is also filled with multiple living rooms and glass walls. Everything is placed perfectly and seems almost unused.

I can see my and the Don’s room down a dark corridor. It’s not very different, but it’s away from the other rooms, which means more privacy. I’m not sure if I want more privacy with a stranger.

I figure that he likes everything simple but beautiful because all the walls are a nice beige color and many of the couches are black.

The floor upstairs is cherry, just like the bedroom, and covered with light, fuzzy carpets.

I rub my hands together as I keep walking. I still have to explore the other side of the house because it’s so big. I pause when I spot another room.

Even from the outside, I can tell it’s a big room. The door is wider.

Debating whether I should go in or not, I finally decide to do so. This is my house too, right? I should know my resources. I should be more aware.

Pushing the oak door open, I’m greeted by the sight of books. Lots of them. “Oh, my gosh.” I can barely hear my own voice as I stare at the mesmerizing sight.

The place is so tidy that it instantly becomes my favorite room. I love books. They help me forget reality and, right now, I want nothing more than to do just that.

I love the tales of romance. I love the clichés. They make my life easier when I imagine myself in the shoes of fictional characters.

I love how there are Mafia men who respect and cherish their women, even though they exist in tales that hold barely any truth.

The shelves with big, neatly placed books make me not want to ruin the neatness, but they look too inviting.

I grab a random novel and wander into the spacious seating area surrounded by glass walls. It’s so peaceful. I can see a view of the green forest outside.

It doesn’t take long before I’m engrossed in the novel, Maze Runner. But something has to ruin my peace.

Sophia, the caller ID reads.

I don’t pick up. It’s for her own good. She doesn’t know where I live or even who I really am. She just knows my name and one day, she’ll give up just like everyone else did.

I need to move on from my old life. That’s the promise every girl makes to the Family.

Bitter thoughts cloud my mind, stopping me from reading further. I have to read each line multiple times to finally understand it.

My happy mood is gone and I’m back in the world of chaos. I’m back in reality.

On the couch beside me, there’s a drawer. Hoping to find a bookmark, I open it only to find a gun. I’m not surprised. This is the head Family. Guns are everywhere.

I quickly shut the drawer and open another one. It has papers and pencils. A sigh of relief escapes my lips. I don’t want to see another weapon.

***

My phone rings again, interrupting my sketch. It’s the same person. Sophia.

I still don’t pick up. My finger hovers over the block button but I chicken out. I’m pathetic. I still don’t want her to give up on me.

But her call also reminds me of the time. It’s a few hours before dinner, and considering that a lot of people are coming, I have to organize the tables and cook the food.

I don’t want to make a bad impression in front of the Family, especially since Antonio didn’t let us stay for the after-wedding rituals and reception.

I place the sheet of paper back inside the drawer. I’ll finish it later when I’m bored. With one last glance around, I leave the isolated room. The halls are dim with the evening light.

I remember a time when Father had guests over. I was eighteen. I was specifically asked to cook a proper, exquisite meal. The guests had to love it.

At the time, I didn’t know the guest was the Don’s father, Raffaello Giordano. I didn’t know that he was there to find a suitable match for his well-groomed son.

He thought I was the most suitable candidate. I didn’t understand why, though. Father wasn’t a big man at the time.

I remember him calling me sexy. Then, he said my food was even better than me. He told us that he wanted me in his family.

“She is who I want for my oldest son,” he had said. It wasn’t anything fatherly. It was as if it was his duty.

After all, our family’s weddings are always arranged. Love marriages are a sin but they happen once in a while.

The lights are on in the kitchen, telling me that Mya is already at work. I clear my throat when I see her taking the pans out of the cupboards. I must’ve surprised her because she almost drops them.

Just like before, her hair is tied in an elegant bun and her face is clear of any makeup. “Do we start now?” I ask her. I don’t want the food getting cold and then getting scolded for it.

“Yes, ma’am.” Her hands are shaking.

“What are you planning to make?” I feel like I’m interrogating her. I’m not usually like this.

“Everything. You know, when the Don throws these dinners, he expects me to whip up some veggies and meat, and of course, dessert to top it all off.”

I slap my hands together, forcing a cheeriness that makes me wince. “Alright, let’s get this show on the road.”