I’m freezing. I know this because everything is shaking. Because I’m still only wearing this stupid black dress, walking around in the cold.
But none of the bleary-eyed morning commuters seem to bat an eyelid. Nor do they seem to care about the blood splattered across my legs and arms.
Claudio’s blood.
It had been like unlocking a door to the darkest part of me. A part that I’d sealed shut my entire life for fear of what it might mean.
But knowing who my father was, what my family had been…
I am a daughter of the mafia. And in that moment, between aiming and pulling the trigger, I dug deep into that part of myself, barely flinching at the recoil as the bullet had found its home in Claudio’s chest.
I want to feel remorse for it. I want to feel anything at all for it. But from the moment I saw Claudio pulling a gun on Rocco, everything had shut down. It was as if my body instinctively knew it needed to put me in this numb, self-preservation mode.
Someone bumps into my shoulder as I navigate across the next block of unfamiliar houses. The jerk causes my ankle to flash in pain.
Where the hell even am I?
I’ve been on autopilot since Rocco got down on his knees and begged me to stay.
I slow at the next intersection to read the street sign. Brighton.
I’ve been here before—my second day in Brooklyn. It seems so long ago now, but I still remember the address.
It’s the same address I’ve been writing to these last few years, ever since she moved out of her parents’ place.
It takes me twenty minutes to orient myself and find it, counting the doors until I reach the small apartment complex.
“Mia? It’s me.” My voice is hoarse as I speak into the intercom.
I don’t even know if she’s here. But a second later, the front door buzzes open.
I step into the familiar foyer and make my way up to the second floor.
Mandy is already halfway down the corridor when I get there; her apartment door flung open further down the hall.
For a second, we just stand there, frozen as we take each other in.
Dark circles have blossomed under her eyes; from lack of sleep or the darkening bruise over her cheek, I can’t be sure.
“You look like shit,” I say.
She throws herself at me, arms pulling me in so tightly I can barely breathe. But God, do I need this. The numbness burns away under human contact, leaving me with nothing but raw, uncontrollable grief.
“Shhhhh,” Mia strokes my hair as the sobs begin to rack my body. “Come on.”
She takes my hand, leading me into her tiny studio apartment and gently sitting me down on her bed.
Wordlessly, she climbs over to lie next to me and opens her arms to me once more.
I’m not sure how much time passes while we lie there as everything pours out of me in one messy stream of grief.
Grief for my father, a man I never knew. A man who thought it wise to bring me to this godforsaken place. For him dying before I had a chance to damn him to hell.
Grief for my mother, who had lied to me my whole life. Who had somehow managed to leave the Italian mafia and would have never wanted this for me.
Grief for Claudio Lazzaro, who I had so earnestly and naively loved. Who had so completely and utterly ruined me. Who was now dead by my own hand.
Grief for the girl I once was, the person I would never be again.
