My mafia Daddy

PROLOGUE ______________

The girl who waited?

That would be a great title for a book about my life. Too bad I’m not interesting enough to have a book written about me. I’m not Joan of Arc, not Mary Magdalene, not even a nameless martyr tucked between the pages of a leather-bound Bible. I’m just… me. My name is Ninath Black and in two months I’m gonna be fifteen! Just three more years and I'm gonna be able to see the real world. Now? I'm still waiting. That’s what I’ve always done. Wait for the bell to ring. Wait for the sisters to open the doors. Wait for God to remember I exist. Wait for something to start… or for something to finally end. They say patience is holy, but they don’t tell you what it feels like when patience turns to dust in your chest.

•

I’ve lived my whole life in an all-girls Catholic orphanage. I know it’s somewhere called Long Island, but they don’t tell us much about it. The sisters say it’s better that way. Too much knowledge, they say, breeds sin. There’s always a bell. For waking. For prayer. For chores. For silence. For meals. For lessons. A life lived between chimes. That’s all I know. I don’t know warmth. Or family. Or who I really am, what it’s like to have a friend. The other girls don’t like me. They don’t say it out loud, the Sisters would scold them for that, but cruelty doesn’t need a voice to do its work. They whisper behind veils, behind rosaries, behind pressed palms and blank stares. I’ve heard the names. I’ve seen the looks. They think I’m the Devil’s favourite. They think I was born already touched by sin, or by temptation itself, just because of the way I look. Different. They think I don’t notice the way they keep their distance, like I carry something they might catch. Something unholy, cursed even. They say I was never meant for this world. That I was dropped here by mistake on the way to Hell. I say nothing. Never. Not because I agree, but because I don’t know what to say. They say I’m not like the others. I walk too softly. I smile too easily. I look too… pretty, like it's my fault. I used to cry about it all the time when I was smaller, but not anymore. I didn’t ask to look the way I do, but they act like I planned it, like I wake up every morning and choose this skin, this face, these curves that never fit the modest dresses they give us. No I don't. I look like this and there is nothing I can do about it. My hair is long ginger-red, the colour of autumn fire. It curls in thick rings, and no matter how tight I braid it, it always springs out. The sisters call them devil’s spirals and sister Annabeth calls them Lucifer’s ribbons. My eyes are a deep shade of green almost emerald, almond-shaped, framed by black thick lashes. They accuse me of enhancing them, as if I even knew how. My eyes are too big for my face, like I’m always surprised by the world. My nose is small, buttoned and freckled. The freckles stretch across my cheeks and scatter down my chin like they forgot where to stop. My lips? Light red. Full. Always have been. I don’t pout, they just sit that way. Like a sin someone else left behind for me to carry. And my body… Yes, I wish it were simpler. I’m five-foot-four. Slim in the waist, but my chest is full and round, and my hips curve wide enough to make every dress feel like a secret waiting to be accused. It makes them hate me. I know it does. The girls, the older sisters and even our priests. Though they say nothing with their mouths, I can see it in their eyes. They say I was made for sin, but I’ve only ever belonged to silence. If I could, I’d hide myself, but I don’t know how. I've learned very young, that beauty makes people uncomfortable. Especially when it shows up in a girl who didn’t earn it, doesn't want it and can’t hide it. Sister Annabeth once told me that God put me here to be tested. I didn’t understand it then, but as time went by, maybe, he’s testing my faith. Maybe, my ability to forgive those who harm me. I really don’t know. Sister Teresa says beauty without humility is a blade that cuts both ways. Again, I didn’t really understand. I didn’t even know I was beautiful, not until everyone made it sound like a sin. I was just me. Just Ninath. Just an orphan left on the doorstep of this place almost fifteen years ago. I and an envelope of money with my name on it. That’s all I had. That's all my true family did for me. The sisters and everyone else? They only saw what they wanted. A girl with inner scars, looking like a sin.

•

Sometimes I think this place was built to punish softness. Other times, I think it was built to trap it. I’ve never left these walls. Not once. I’ve never stepped past the iron gates. Never heard my name called from beyond them. Never seen a stranger. Never known anything but church bells, praying and the quiet dread that fills the halls at night. I’ve only ever belonged to this chapel, this courtyard, this dormitory with its starched walls, grey sheets and secondhand prayers.

•

When the morning bell rings, I’m already awake. Not from dreams, I don’t really have those… but from the breeze sneaking through the cracked window next to my bed, fluttering the sheer white curtain like a ghost looking for an exit. The light is soft, golden. It looks like a beautiful day outside and the thought actually makes me… happy. Maybe today we’ll be allowed into the garden. Maybe I can run barefoot in the grass. I love that feeling. The cold of the dirt, the soft sting of morning dew, the way it makes me feel like the world is real for a moment. Free, almost. Even if only in the space between prayers. It’s quite sad, but I always tell myself, other people have it worse. So why should I feel sad? Or sorry for myself? I have a name. I have a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in. I have food. I have clothes to wear. Isn’t that enough for a girl like me? Sometimes I believe it. Sometimes I don’t.

•

A soft knock pulls me out of my thoughts. The door creaks open.

„Wake up, sweetheart. It’s time for breakfast.” Sister Luisa’s voice. The only one here that ever says my name like it’s a gentle thing. I sit up and look around my small, private room. I’ve always wondered why I’m the only girl here with one. All the other girls live in rooms of four and I’m alone. Sister Luisa told me I have a secret caregiver, and that I’m a very special girl. She's the only one who never mocked the way I look, judged me or anything else, on the contrary. She's the only one who ever showed me any kind of affection, care and helped me to even have a bit of confidence in myself. That’s why the other girls are jealous, she once said to me after I cried about how they treated me. That’s why they act… sinfully towards you. Sometimes I wonder if that’s true. Other times I wonder if it’s just something she says to keep me from asking the wrong questions. Anyhow, it makes me feel better about everything they do to me and that's all that matters.

•

I kneel beside my bed and whisper my morning prayer.

„Lord, if I am made for more…let me be brave enough to find it, soft without being broken, kind without being crushed, seen without being hunted. Let me want things without being punished, ask questions without losing faith and forgive those who shame me. If You truly gave me this face, this body, this voice…then help me carry it without fear.” I pause, then exhale slowly.

„And if none of this is part of Your plan…please just keep me safe one more day.” I finished my prayer and breathed out shakily. It’s a habit now. Even if some mornings, I don’t know if I want to do it…I mean he never answered, never showed me any sign. Some part of me is questioning him and some part of me is afraid he already did.

•

I quickly brush my teeth and braid my hair as tightly as possible. Lucifer’s ribbons, as sister Annabeth calls them, she also always scolds me I should keep them tied back, that my curls are too wild. Too vivid. Too sinful. Too bright. They are, but what can I do about that?! I was born like this. Sister Luisa is the only one who doesn’t say that and also the only one who defends me, or makes the other sisters bite their tongue before they would dare to say something like that to me. She's very kind to me, she always has. The only one who speaks to me like I matter. She’s older, maybe in her fifties, with a small figure and long brown hair streaked with silver. Her eyes are soft. Her hands are always clean. She says she’s raised me since I was a baby. Sometimes I wonder if she sees me as her own. I want her to. I want someone to. She's the only one whom I consider as someone who cares for me almost like a mother would.

•

Today I make two side braids, tucking the ends behind my shoulders. Then I pull on my uniform, blue linen dress, dark ribbon at the collar, white slippers…same as always. The dress fits like it always does, or more like it doesn't fit… It's too tight in some places, too loose in others. It should be humble, decent and serene, but for me? It never is. My body is too curvy to be hidden in those plain dresses. I wear it, of course, I do, but on me it doesn't look modest.

•

At breakfast, all the girls sit in neat rows, heads bowed like petals after rain. The air smells like overcooked oatmeal, dry toast, and old fruit…something the Sisters call simple blessings. The usual tension is heavy, quiet, and tight in our throats like something unspoken, but always present. Sister Teresa stands at the front of the hall, tall and stiff in her black, hands folded like she’s hiding something sharp between her knuckles. Her voice slices through the silence like a ruler through the air.

„Girls, today you’ll all go to the garden and spend the whole day there.” Her tone is sweet, but the sweetness is hollow like a syrup-coated threat.

„I warn you, don’t make me regret my decision to let you have one day off. Be obedient. Listen to your Sisters, or there will be consequences.” A pause. A glance. Her eyes sweep over every table like a wolf checking its territory.

„For lunch, you’ll have a picnic. Enjoy the fresh air while you have it. I expect you back in full strength, silence, and grace.” She stares at us for a long moment, cold and unreadable.

„See you this afternoon.” And just like that, she sits. Her words still hang in the air like dust that refuses to settle.

„Thank you, Sister Teresa.” We say it together. Practiced. A line we’ve all rehearsed to perfection. My hands tremble a little as I hold the chipped ceramic bowl, my spoon scraping the bottom like I’m digging for something that isn’t there. I can barely eat. I’m too happy. A day outside is rare. And freedom, freedom tastes strange when you’ve spent your whole life chewing on obedience. There are nearly a hundred of us at the orphanage, but we’re split into five groups. Twenty girls to two Sisters. My group is number three. Our caretakers are Sister Luisa and Sister Annabeth, whose stare feels like it could crack glass. I don’t have friends here. Not really. The other girls don’t speak to me unless they’re forced. They look through me, or worse… at me like I’m something dangerous in a holy place, like I carry a sin I don’t remember committing.

•

In the courtyard, I walk a little behind the others, like always and not because I want to, but because I’ve learned it’s easier that way. Less attention. Less chance of getting pulled into whispers or cruel games. Still, I hear them.

“Look at her…”

“Who does she think she is?”

“Did you see her hair today?”

“She thinks she’s better than us.”

I keep my eyes on the ground. I don’t reply. I don’t react. It wouldn’t matter if I did anyway. Sometimes silence is the only thing you can weaponise in return.

•

The garden is plain, but wide. The grass is cut short and sharp. The air carries a faint scent of soil and something sweet from the trees, maybe apples? I take off my slippers the moment we step past the gravel path. The cold earth kisses the soles of my feet like it remembers me and I smile, just a little. There’s something holy about feeling the dirt directly. It makes me feel like I’m part of the world, like maybe God is in the grass more than the chapel. Sister Annabeth watches from the bench, lips tight, her eyes following every girl like a hawk ready to strike. Sister Luisa talks quietly with some of the younger girls, her voice soft like sunlight through linen. A few yards away, the others lay out picnic cloths faded by years of washing and unwrapped our lunches. Thin sandwiches, bruised apples, maybe a biscuit if you’re lucky. I don’t mind. I’m not hungry. I just want the air, the freedom and the fragile illusion of being unobserved. I take slow steps across the lawn, twirling once when no one’s watching. The blades tickle my ankles. For a few stolen minutes, I can pretend I’m not being punished just for existing.

•

Later, as I roam the garden, I find myself near the gate. Not too close, just close enough to feel the pull. The iron bars are blackened with age, the tips shaped like thorns. I reach out and brush my fingers against the metal. It’s cool. Unforgiving. Beyond the gate, there’s nothing but trees and silence, but it doesn’t feel empty. It feels like something’s waiting. A world, maybe? It's a feeling I can’t name. A presence just out of reach. Sometimes I wonder if someone’s out there. Someone I’ve never met. Someone who’s waiting for me to open my eyes, my hands, my mouth and say…

“Please, I’m ready.”

I laugh under my breath. The sound feels strange in my own ears. It’s a silly thought. Isn’t it? Well, even I, silly orphan girl can have silly thoughts...

•

Tonight, I lie in bed with a locket pressed to my chest. It’s old. Silver. No engraving. No name. Just weight. It was given to me on my thirteenth birthday. No card. No message. No Sister with a kind smile. Just left under my pillow like a secret that didn’t want to be found. A gift without a sender. Another thread in the long, knotted question of WHO I AM… and why was I ever left here. I don’t say my evening prayer tonight, not because I forgot, but because I don’t know what to ask for anymore. Today was yet another day that ended too quickly and just reminded me of how meaningless my life has been up to this point. So, I just… listen. To the silence pressing at the windowpanes. To the slow, distant sound of another girl crying down the hall. To the hum beneath my ribs, soft and steady, like the inside of me still believes in more…so yeah. This is me, Ninath Black. Still waiting in the only place I’ve ever known. It's boring and suffocating. This orphanage is my prison, my shelter, my coffin, my cradle. It raised me, kept me fed, taught me to kneel and bow, be small and silent. For all that? I’m grateful. I am, I really am, but I’m also… tired. Of the same walls. The same bells. The same small life with no cracks for light to come in. They say patience is holy, but what they never tell you is how it hollows you out. How it turns you into a ghost in your own body. How it teaches you to sit still even when your soul is screaming to run. Some nights, like this one, I wonder if maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe something will change. Maybe something will find me. Maybe I’ll wake up to a life that isn’t shrinking around me like wet linen. Most nights, I try to believe that maybe… tomorrow will be different. That something will change. That this won’t be my whole story, just the beginning of it. Maybe, the wind will sound different through the window. Maybe, someone will be waiting at the gate. Maybe, I’ll wake up, everything I know will start to fall away…and something else, something more, will begin. But most nights? It never does Not really. The bell will ring. Sister Luisa will knock. I’ll braid my hair. I’ll eat the same bland breakfast while the other girls pretend I’m not real. I’ll walk behind them, silent and careful. I’ll pray in the chapel and try not to ask why I’m still here. And the day will pass like all the others… soft, quiet, forgettable. Just another name scratched into the inside of a cage. But still… What if one day it doesn’t go like that? What if the bell rings, the door opens…and everything I thought I knew begins to end? What if I don’t wake up to the same life? What if I wake up to the one who was always waiting for me?

Yeah, that would be nice, right?