“Your husband stole my entire shipping business from under me.”
“That business belonged to our father before your family took it over and you know it.” My mother tries to reason with the man, but it is clear there will be no negotiating.
“That’s only the story he told you.” He extends his arm and cocks the hammer back with his thumb.
“I am not afraid of you. You are a coward.” My mother always was feisty.
“I don’t need you to be afraid,” he says. “I just need you to die. You and your daughter.” His eyes "find me, and he points the gun right at me.
“You do not threaten us,” my mother says as she adjusts her stance, placing me behind her again. “When Roberto "finds you, he will kill you slowly. Now get out of my house.” Her voice is strong; the presence of the gun does not scare her at all. I wish I was as brave as her.
I peek out from my mother’s other side.
“I can’t wait to tell your husband how I killed you and your daughter.” His "finger slowly presses the trigger. The gunshot is so loud I jump.
One gunshot turns into many as my father, Roberto Antony Gastone Zeffiri Bacino, storms in from the side door, shooting his own gun. How did he get home so fast?
The stranger crumples to the floor. My father keeps walking toward him, still "ring. Bullets riddle the man’s body. His gun clicks; it is empty. My father keeps pulling the trigger as he continues to advance on his target. The dry click of the gun tells me it is empty, but my father wants to keep shooting.
He stops, looks at the empty gun, then back down at the bloody body he just killed. He spits on the body and curses in Italian.
Then his eyes "find me. “Mia?”
I don’t know what to say. I am in shock.
His eyes trail over to where my mother was standing. Then his eyes fall to the floor. “Anna!” My father drops the gun and runs to my mother. She is laying on her back, her white dress stained with blood. I didn’t realize the man got one shot o" before my dad killed him.
My father blows by me and picks her up in his arms. “Anna, my love. No!” Her eyes are alive for only a brief moment. Then they become glassy as her skin turns pale. Her head falls back, limp in his arms. “No, no, no!”
I stand there staring at the pool of blood that has soaked through her white Gucci dress onto the silver carpet.
Beep, beep, beep.
I slowly pry my eyelids open and realize the beeping that just woke me up is a text notification coming in on my phone. Just like that I’m back in my room. Back from the past. I usually dream about the day my mother was killed right in front of me about once a month. I rub my eyes and sit on the edge of the bed, pulling my comforter around me.
My mother died ten years ago. And it was on that day I learned what my father really did for a living. It is a reminder of the danger that can happen in the world I live in. Before that day, I believed what he told most people. That he was the CFO of the biggest waste management contractor in all of New York City. He does own that business. But in reality, he is the Don of the Bacino crime family.
I turn a blind eye and a deaf ear. And in return, he keeps me safe, in the money and in Gucci and Prada. I live a privileged but sheltered life. Some might say I am spoiled rotten.
The text is from my dad. •••
PAPA: I’m sending a car to pick you up. MIA: ok
I start to dress and collect my things. Knowing my dad, he sent the car a long time ago. It’s probably outside already.
I text my friend Laurie, letting her know I am going to miss our breakfast date.
MIA: Can’t do breakfast today. My dad is sending a car for me. Sorry, maybe some other time.
LAURIE: No worries. I know when Daddy calls you got to go.
If she only knew. Something in the pit of my stomach tells me that the reason for my dad calling me to his home, insisting on sending me a car, is a biggie and that it’s going to have a major impact on my life as I know it.
Sure enough, the car and the driver are waiting for me outside. The ride to my dad’s mansion is quiet. I sit there, watching the streets pass through my window, wondering what my dad has in store for me this time.
“There she is.” He practically sings his welcome to me as I walk in. “I should have named you Angelina, for you are an angel. My beautiful daughter. Come.”
There is always a tone of cordiality in my father’s words, but when there is no warmth, I know he is all business and ice cold. Flanked by two men whom I’ve never met before, I follow my dad to his den, which is decorated in a scheme of brass, leather, and polished wood. He has a cross on the wall, a picture of his family on his desk, and a gun in his drawer. That sums up my dad pretty good. He kisses me on the cheek.