The Mafia's Mute Wife

CHAPTER 2

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“Whoa, Berto!” Mario’s voice shot out the second we got through the door. “What the heck happened to you?” He looked from Umberto to me and then back at Umberto, who looked like he’d lost a wrestling match with a trash compactor. There was dried blood smeared on his knuckles and a slight limp as he tried to walk it off.

Umberto just huffed and grumbled something like, “Don’t worry about it,” before heading off to the bathroom.

I pulled out my notebook and scribbled a quick note to Mario: *Just a little street scuffle. Nothing big.*

Mario frowned as he read it. “Nothing big, huh?” He shook his head. “That guy’s got a temper, always trying to play tough.”

I tried not to laugh, watching my oh-so-wise big brother roll his eyes like he was the responsible adult here. At seventeen, he acted like he had everything figured out, but I remember a time when he was way different. Back when Mom was around, he was more… I don’t know… kind, maybe? Softer. But losing her had flipped a switch. Now he wanted to be all tough, just like Dad and the rest of the guys in the family.

I hated it. Mario thought he saw the appeal, thought he could handle the power and respect that came with Dad’s world. But he was blind to the dark side, the side that twisted men into something else. Something cruel. I’d seen enough to know that this life didn’t come with a happy ending.

If only he’d listen to me. I wanted to scream it sometimes, scribble it in bold, loud letters until he saw what I saw. But he wouldn’t hear it from me, not yet. So, I kept fighting my quiet, behind-the-scenes battle, leaving him reminders here and there, and scolding him with notes about school. At least I’d managed to keep him from dropping out this year. That alone was a win—one small victory in a war I wasn’t sure I could win.

Giving him a weak smile, I pointed upstairs, signaling that I was heading to my room. I took the stairs slowly, feeling the weight of the day on my shoulders, and finally collapsed onto my bed with a deep sigh. I was worn out—emotionally, mentally, all of it. Trying to look out for Mario, fending off Dad’s demands, and keeping myself from getting pulled deeper into their world was exhausting.

My gaze wandered to the book I’d left on my bed earlier, a small tear in its cover that seemed to echo how I felt. I thought about the man I’d seen in the café, the one who’d looked at me like he could see straight through my skin and into all my fears and secrets. For a second, I’d felt something—a weird, inexplicable pull. It was probably stupid, but maybe he was the only one who understood this life.

A sharp knock on my door shattered the quiet, jolting me out of my thoughts. My heart sank as I looked up to find Dad standing there, looming like a storm cloud. Leonardo Mancini, capo of the Moretti family and, unfortunately, my father. He had this look that could freeze you right where you stood. For years, he was just a story, a figure I barely knew. Now he was all too real, and I couldn’t seem to escape his attention.

“I’m going out of town for the next two days,” he said, his voice like sandpaper on stone. “I don’t want to hear that you’ve stepped one toe out of line. Understood?”

He watched me like a hawk, waiting for any sign that I might not take him seriously. Inside, I felt a small flutter of excitement. Two whole days without his shadow looming over me? It was like winning the lottery.

But he wasn’t stupid. His eyes narrowed, and I could tell he knew exactly what I was thinking. “Don’t get any ideas, Aria,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “Bad things happen to people who don’t listen.” He took a step into my room, crowding me with his presence. “I think you understand that by now, don’t you?”

My breath caught in my throat, and I nodded, swallowing hard. He stared at me a moment longer, as if trying to read my thoughts, and then he turned to leave.

The second he was gone, I felt like I could finally breathe again. His threat was loud and clear, and it was one I couldn’t afford to ignore. He was right—I knew what he was capable of. I’d already seen enough to know exactly how far he’d go to keep control.

What I didn’t understand was how he’d ever won over my mom. Had he always been this ruthless, this cold? Or was there a time when he was more like Mario, someone sweet who hadn’t been twisted yet? The thought made my stomach churn.

The idea of Mario becoming someone like Dad terrified me. I couldn’t stand the thought of watching him turn into someone unrecognizable. But how could I stop it?

The answer was a big, fat *I don’t know*. The mafia world wasn’t all monsters like Dad. Some of them—like Uncle Gino—had a softer side. He seemed to genuinely care about Aunt Etta, Mom’s twin sister. But then again, what if he had to choose between family and power? I didn’t know if he’d make the right call. That was the trouble with this life; even the good ones were tarnished.

I didn’t know when or how, but one day, I’d get out. I didn’t have my own money, and I didn’t have a plan yet, but I was patient. I’d wait for an opportunity, and when it came, I’d be ready.

In the meantime, I’d keep doing what I could. Fighting quietly, in little ways, for Mario and myself. Because Mom would’ve wanted it, and maybe—just maybe—that was enough to keep me going.