Page 4 of Broken Mafia Prince (His to Break #1)

I stand there for a moment, watching her. She’s so…fragile. That’s the only word for it. Her shoulders slope, as if carrying an invisible weight. Her movements are careful, precise, like someone trying not to break.

I want to ask her why she never stands up to him, why she lets him talk to me, to her, the way he does. But I already know the answer. She never says anything. Not to him, not to me. She just stays silent, enduring it all like a shadow fading into the background.

And that’s what I despise most about her. It’s the only thing I hate about her, honestly.

She’s kind, gentle in ways my father could never understand.

She’s the one who introduced me to the world of books, taught me how to play chess, and showed me how to find beauty in the simplest things.

But her silence—it drives me mad. It’s as if she’s accepted this life, resigned to being the perfect Gagliardi wife, even though it’s clear she’s miserable.

I know that’s how “ made women ” are raised to be—stoic, obedient, their voices silenced.

But surely, there had to be those who rejected it, who refused to be confined to a life where their every move is dictated, where they’re treated like a piece of furniture.

Were there women who fought against it? Women who lived for themselves, not just for their husbands or families. Weren’t there?

I nod and quickly leave, knowing he hates to be kept waiting.

I make my way through the endless hallways, the thick red rugs beneath my feet a constant reminder of my father’s obsession with cleanliness.

Expensive paintings line the walls, but I’m not bothered by them as much as the ones just outside his study.

Those portraits are like ghosts, watching me, assessing me.

As I stand before his slightly ajar door, it feels like the faces of the men from the paintings are staring down at me with judgment.

They all have the famous Gagliardi eyes—vivid blue and cold as ice.

The fact that I also have them should make me feel connected to them, proud of my heritage, but all I feel is a deep hatred for genetics.

I raise my fist to knock on the heavy oak door, but it swings open before I can make contact.

My father’s accountant stands there, his eyes locking onto my face.

Horror flashes in them for a fleeting moment before he quickly looks away.

I should be used to these reactions by now, but it still makes me flinch.

“Raffaele, come on in, figlio mio .” Father’s voice is calm, and it makes a shiver go down my spine.

I square my shoulders, forcing myself to step over the threshold.

The study looms ahead, a room I loathe with every fiber of my being.

It’s not just the suffocatingly dark decor—the heavy drapes, the deep mahogany shelves, the intimidating portraits of Gagliardi ancestors staring down at me—it’s what this room represents.

Nothing good has ever happened to me within these four walls, and I know today won’t break that streak.

“Sit.” Father settles into his large leather chair, eyes pinned on me.

At my side, my tutor drops into one of the two seats across from Father, and I take the other. Uncomfortable silence fills the room while Father takes his time selecting a cigar from his box, clipping the end and lighting it up.

“Whiskey?” he offers, gesturing to Tony with a slight lift of the glass decanter on his desk.

“No, thank you, Don,” Tony replies, shaking his head so quickly it’s almost comical. His nervousness is palpable, and I wonder how much he’s being paid to sit here. Whatever the sum, I know it wouldn’t be enough for me to face Edoardo Gagliardi willingly.

“I hope you have good news for me today, Tony,” Father chuckles, leaning back into his high-backed chair.

Tony clears his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “Yes, Mr. Gagliardi,” the tutor begins, and I perk up—until I hear his next words. “Raffaele’s essays and English have improved significantly.”

“Essays? English?” my father repeats, his blue eyes narrowing. “What the hell do I care about poetry and letters? All the time he puts in reading stupid books. I don’t expect him to be the next Shakespeare or Dickens. Who gives a crap about that? What about math? The sciences?”

Tony looks over at me, nervous, and I resign myself to whatever punishment I’ll get today. I hang my head, fingers clenched into fists in my lap.

I try so hard to follow the instructions, to listen and understand, but no matter how many times I study the notes, the numbers just don’t make sense.

“He has a D in math, history, and biology,” Tony says hesitantly. “A C in the others. But he has an A-plus in English.”

I watch as Father removes the cigar from his mouth and blows smoke into the air. He gives no outward reaction to the news of my grades, but I know him well enough to feel his fury prickling against my skin.

He finally speaks. “Thank you, Tony. That will be all.”

The younger man wastes no time in scrambling from his chair and hurrying out. He shoots me an apologetic glance that I pretend not to see, knowing Father is watching me like a hawk.

“What do you think?” he asks, his fingers steepled together on the desk in front of him.

“About what, sir?” I reply cautiously, knowing better than to assume.

“Your grades. You don’t think Tony’s made a mistake?”

“My grades have actually improved,” I say defensively. “I got an F in math last time, and now I have a D. It’s not much, but?—”

“You know, Raffaele,” he interrupts smoothly, leaning forward, “Santino was telling me about his son the other day. You know Santino’s son, don’t you? He’s your age. Surely, you’ve met him.”

Of course, I know him. Santino’s son is the loud-mouthed show-off who never misses a chance to remind everyone how perfect his life is. I try my best to steer clear of him at events. I nod but say nothing, unsure where this is going.

A humorless smile tugs at my father’s lips.

“He plays soccer for the junior league team, and he gets straight A’s. Santino never shuts up about him, and why would he? He’s got a brilliant, athletic son. Santino’s not got much in the way of money in the bank, and his wife isn’t all that beautiful.”

He pauses. “But he’s got a son that’s worth more than all the money, and men I have in my pocket. So, let me ask you again. What do you think?”

I open my mouth to respond, but he rises to his feet, the creak of his chair cutting me off. “There’s no need for you to respond. You can’t get an A grade, so I know nothing goes on between your ears.”

My knuckles are white from clutching the material of my pants so tightly.

“Mother says…”I begin, but the words die in my throat as his sharp glare pins me to the chair.

“Your madre should learn to keep her mouth shut,” he snaps coldly, stepping around the table to stand before me.

“She coddles you, makes excuses for your failures. But this is the real world, Raffaele, not one of your English essays. Out there, respect is earned, not gifted. Do you think the Cosa Nostra cares about your creative words when you can’t balance a ledger or calculate interest on a loan?”

I focus on the desk, my nails digging into my palms to keep my anger in check.

“Do you know what they call me, Raffaele?” he continues, pacing now, the cigar still clutched between his fingers.

“ Il Leone. The Lion. I built this family’s empire with my bare hands, clawing my way to the top.

And what do I have to show for it? A son who can’t even hold a candle to Santino’s boy. ”

Actually, he didn’t build anything with his bare hands. We come from a long line of wealth and generational connections. Our family was one of the richest in the mafia, its power stretching far before his time. But I know better than to say anything now.

I’ve seen this act before—the way he lies to himself, trying to make his trust fund upbringing look less obvious. But I keep quiet.

He stops pacing and turns to face me, his gaze icy. “Do you think Santino’s son will flinch when the time comes to lead? No. He’ll stand tall, like his father taught him. And you? What will you do, Raffaele? Hide behind your books? Or worse, your mother’s skirts?”

“I’m not a coward,” I say, my pulse racing as I meet his piercing stare.

“No?” His brow arches, and he exhales another puff of smoke, the room thick with its acrid scent. “Then prove it. Because right now, I see nothing but weakness.”

The silence that follows is deafening. He extinguishes the cigar with a deliberate press into the ashtray, the sound sharp and final, like a judge’s gavel.

“On your feet.”

I stand slowly, my eyes wide, still trying to process the moment.

“Good-for-nothing boy,” he hisses. “You’re my heir, and yet I have to hide you away like a dirty little secret. Tony’s supposed to be a miracle worker. I pay a boatload of money for him to work his miracolo , and this is what you give me?”

“I’ll do better, I’ll?—”

My words are abruptly cut off as the back of my father’s hand connects with my face, the force knocking me sideways. I taste blood as it floods my mouth, and I brace for the next strike. My eyes close involuntarily, my breath held in a painful pause.

But instead of his usual hand, he strikes with the other, the cold metal rings digging deep into my skin. The impact sends me crashing to the floor, and I scramble away from the fury pouring from him in waves.

“A disgrace, that’s what you are. From the moment you’ve stepped into this world, all you’ve done is make me a laughingstock,” he roars.

“They hide it well, but I see the pity in their eyes. Edoardo Gagliardi? Pitied? In what world does a Gagliardi ever become a figure of pity? We are feared. We are revered.”

“Father, please,” I plead, tears springing to my eyes. I try to blink them back, but those icy blue eyes already clock the tears.

His face twists into a mask of disgust—the same look he always gives when he sees something unworthy. “You’ve spent too much time with your mother. It’s softened you. Made you weak. From now on, you won’t see her.”

“You can’t do that!” It’s the first time I’ve dared speak up against my father, and I want to swallow back the words as soon as they leave my mouth. My eyes twitch for a second. But instead, I rise to my feet and square up against him.

The thought of never playing chess with her again makes my heart race with panic. She’s the only one who sees me for who I am, who doesn’t expect me to be a version of myself I cannot reach.

Father’s face hardens, more stone than man. “You’ll not see or speak to her again until I see a marked improvement in you. Now, get out of my sight.”

I spin on my heels and run to her, my heart pounding in my chest. I refuse to let the tears fall because I’m not a baby, and only babies cry.

“Mother!” I cry out, bursting into her room, but I freeze in the doorway. The chess pieces are scattered on the floor, but she is gone.

“Didn’t I say you’re not to see her again?” Father’s voice rings coldly from behind me.

I turn slowly, my voice shaking. “Where is she?”

He ignores me. “Take him to his room, and make sure he stays there for the next few days.”

One of his men steps forward, grabbing my arm and yanking me toward the hall. I struggle, but his grip is iron, and the more I fight, the tighter his hold becomes.

“Where is she?” I scream. “What have you done to her?”

The guard dragging me over slaps a palm over my mouth to muffle my screaming. He’s too strong for me to dislodge his hold, and after some struggle, my shoulders finally droop in defeat and exhaustion.

With a violent shove, he throws me into my room, slamming the door behind him. The sound of the lock clicking echoes through the room, but it doesn’t matter. I’m too consumed by terror to care about the prison around me.

I have to believe he wouldn’t hurt her. He’s a monster, yes, but he wouldn’t harm her, I tell myself. I have to believe that.

I walk to the window and stare out beyond the high, reinforced walls that encircle our estate.

Beyond them, rolling hills stretch toward the horizon, covered in the lush green of late spring.

My mother and I used to walk those fields when I was much younger, and I suddenly yearn to be there with her again.

I want to escape. I want to be anywhere but here. I want to disappear with her—to leave this prison behind.

I want a life where she smiles more, and we spend hours playing chess, where I never have to wear shoes that pinch my toes, or sit through those suffocating events where we’re told to stay silent and smile like statues.

I press my palm to the cold glass, and the words she’s said to me a thousand times slip from my lips: “One day, the world will be mine, and it will be better.”

I say the words, but part of me wonders if I believe them. Maybe if I repeat them enough, they’ll come true.