Page 5 of Broken Mafia Prince (His to Break #1)

GIULIA

“Papa, what if?—”

“Not now, Giulia,” he says quietly, never taking his eyes off the gravestones before us.

Everyone around us is paying attention to the priest, so I know I’m supposed to remain quiet. But I don’t want to hear his words, and I certainly don’t want to look at the headstones.

It makes everything feel too real. When I think about the fact that I’ll never see my twin sister or Mama again, I get this burning pain in my chest.

And honestly, it’s not like they’re really inside their graves. I overheard the cops say they were taken by the sea. They said their bodies were never recovered—they were… eaten by sharks.

The officer said it plainly, like it’s just another fact of life. My chest tightens, the air seeming too thin around me. Eaten by sharks? How does someone process that? How do you grieve for someone when there’s nothing left to bury?

Eleonora Montanari and Valentina Montanari. The stone is pristine and impersonal, a cruel reminder of how little we have left of them.

I try to remember Valentina’s laugh—the bright, wild sound of it that used to fill the house—and the way Mama hummed her favorite old songs while stirring a pot of soup. But the memories feel slippery, fading just as I try to hold onto them.

My hand shakes as I trace the engraved letters of Valentina’s name. The last time I saw her, she was laughing, her face alive with mischief. It doesn’t seem real.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, though my voice cracks on the words. “I should’ve been faster. I should’ve done something…”

The guilt burns hot, a relentless ache that’s been living in my chest since that day.

“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,” the priest recites his monologue, and I hear people sniffing.

I scan the faces surrounding us for what feels like the hundredth time. A parade of strangers. Our family of four used to live a quiet life, and I preferred it that way. But since the accident, there’s been a new face every day.

It makes me irrationally angry to hear their sobs, sniffles, and sorrowful sighs. What do they even know about Mama and Val? These people don’t know them, and they shouldn’t be mourning them.

A sea of black stretches out over our large backyard, where the headstones have been set up close to a cliff. Val used to dare me to join her at the edge, but I had never taken the risk; now she’s gone, and I fear I might never.

Around me are men and women in outfits that look too elegant for the occasion. In comparison, my black dress and sweater are heavily creased because Mama isn’t here to smooth them out and make them perfect for me.

One of Papa’s new friends tried to help with my hair today, but I screamed until she walked away. I peek over at her now at Papa’s side, her red-clawed fingers wrapped around his arm. I may not know much, but I know that she’s not supposed to be holding him like that.

“Amen,” Papa says, bringing me out of my dark thoughts.

He steps forward with a white rose, kneels before Mama’s gravestone, and whispers something. When he’s done, he returns to my side.

“Go.” He holds out a rose for me.

“No,” I reply stubbornly. “She’s not even in there. The sea has her body.”

Papa drags a hand through his hair, looking tired. There’s a hardness in his face that has never been a part of his face, but now it’s settled in like laugh lines.

“Why must you be so stubborn?” he finally hisses. “Go say goodbye to them.”

I take a cautionary step backward. “I don’t want to.”

I expect him to push further, to insist that I obey him, but to my surprise and disappointment, he merely nods and turns away, leaving yet another dent in my heart.

After that awful day on the cliffside, Father carried me into the blue truck that had killed our family, and without a word, he drove us back home, ignoring all my panicked, teary questions.

“Papa, we have to go back. We have to find Val. We have to—” I’d screamed, over and over, but my words fell on deaf ears. Papa kept his gaze resolutely ahead.

“Papa!” I had grabbed his arm, trying to stop him from driving, but instead, he had grabbed my wrist sharply and turned his head in my direction for just a moment.

“They’re gone, Giulia!” he roared, shaking me. “They’re gone, and they’re never coming back. Do you hear me? They’re gone.”

“Why didn’t you save her?” I had whispered. “If you had been there from the start…” I trailed off, looking over at Papa to judge his reaction.

His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

Since that day, Papa hasn’t said a word about either of the people we lost. He seems to be more focused on the tattooed men who weave in and out like they own the place. Even now, I can see the men lined up at the very back row, their small beady eyes tracking around.

They are the ones he laughs with. His “buddies,” as he calls them. They joke, they drink, they smoke their cigarettes, and for them, it’s like nothing’s changed. As if the world hasn’t been torn apart.

Sometimes, I hear his voice, too casual, too light. It makes my stomach twist in knots. How can he speak like that? How can he act as if nothing’s different?

After the burial, our large group begins the walk back to the house. I try to hold Papa’s hand, but he shrugs me off without a second glance. “I’m busy, go play with the other kids.”

“I don’t want to play,” I murmur, but it’s pointless. There are no kids here anyway. I just want to be near him. He’s the only person in this sea of strangers who truly knew and loved them.

“Not now, Giulia.” When, then? I wonder, but manage to keep the words locked in.

I watch him walk over to where the scary men are positioned. To my surprise, one of them steps aside and Papa gets into the back seat of the car. Before I can see more, a shadow falls over me, blocking them from view.

“Oh, darling. This must be so difficult for you.” An older woman shakes her head sympathetically. “I can just imagine how you’re feeling.”

She can’t imagine. Val was an extension of me, and Mama was the pillar of our home. With them gone, everything is crumbling, and I feel like half of a person now. Like something important has been ripped away from me.

“I just want to let you know that we’re all here for you,” she continues, then blows her nose into her tissue. “It’s the most tragic thing. I can’t believe it.”

It’s like they’re all taking turns, one after another, coming to express their condolences, telling me how sorry they are for my loss, how they’re just a phone call away if I need anything. I don’t know what they think I’ll need them for, but I don’t care to ask.

“You’re young enough,” one woman says. “Children are known for forgetting. You’ll get over this in no time.”

“Has your father talked to you about your future?” an uncle chimes in, puffing out a cloud of smoke. “There’s a boarding school not far from here.”

“I’m four,” I retort.

The man studies me carefully, and then he shrugs. “So?”

Behind him, I spy Papa sipping on a glass of whiskey at the far corner of the room. He looks lost in unpleasant thoughts, and everyone steers clear of him. I start to move toward him, but Donatella blocks my path like a rash that won’t go away.

She’s not really my aunt—she’s some distant cousin of Papa’s. But everyone calls her that, and I can’t bring myself to care. All I know is that she’s been attached to him like a leech since the funeral, and it makes my skin crawl.

Donatella isn’t grieving. She’s… performing.

As usual, she’s wearing a black dress that hugs her figure in a way that’s inappropriate for a memorial, and the neckline plunges down her chest, revealing a good amount of her cleavage. My fingers curl into fists at my side as I watch her whisper something that makes him offer her a tiny smile.

Hurt, betrayal, and envy slice through me as I see that smile.

Papa’s barely said two words to me since the accident, but here he is, smiling at her like everything’s normal.

Her heels click sharply on the floor as she follows him around, her laugh cutting through the murmurs in the room like nails on a chalkboard.

“Enrico,” she says sultrily, her voice dripping with fake concern. “You’re handling all of this so well. I don’t know how you’re managing.”

Papa doesn’t say much in response. He just nods, his face a mask of polite detachment. But he doesn’t pull away from her either, and that’s what makes my blood boil.

I can’t stop watching them. She leans into him every chance she gets, her hand resting lightly on his arm or brushing against his shoulder. Every time she moves, it’s like she’s putting on a show for everyone in the room.

How can she act like this? How can she stand there, draped over my papa, when Mama hasn’t even been gone a full month?

I press my nails into my palms, focusing on the dull ache to keep myself from saying something I’ll regret.

Donatella isn’t the only one hovering around Papa, but she’s the worst of them.

At least the other relatives have the decency to keep their distance, offering their condolences without overstaying their welcome. But Donatella doesn’t seem to understand boundaries.

“Oh, I’m here if you need anything at all, dear cousin,” she coos, tilting her head as she gazes up at him. Her fingers trail down his sleeve, lingering just a little too long.

I don’t know what I hate more: The way she says it, like she’s offering more than just emotional support, or the fact that Papa doesn’t tell her to stop.

“Are you listening, child?” The man snaps his fingers in front of my face, prompting me to switch my attention back to the man. “What happened is a tragedy, but life has to move on. You understand? You have to start thinking of school and?—”

“Allow the poor girl to mourn,” Donatella’s husky voice cuts in when she approaches, causing me to shudder in revulsion. There’s just something about her that makes me uneasy, and I can’t understand why Papa puts up with her.