Page 6 of Broken Mafia Prince (His to Break #1)

She’s nothing like Mama. Mama’s presence was soothing. She spoke softly and smiled with her whole face. She always smelled like whatever amazing thing she had decided to bake that day.

There’s nothing about the blonde standing before me now wearing a lopsided smirk.

“Why don’t you excuse us?” she tells the man, and he takes one last drag of his cigar before walking away.

“He shouldn’t smoke in front of a child.” She makes a sound of disapproval deep in her throat. “How awful.”

Without a response, I begin to walk away from her, but she grabs the back of my rumpled dress, halting me. “Not so fast. I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight.”

“I want to see Papa.”

“He’s occupied at the moment.”

“Not even for five minutes?” I gasp.

“Not even for a minute,” she replies coldly. “Why don’t you go up to bed? I know it’s been a trying day, and I’m sure you need the rest.”

I stare at her, trying to understand. Is she trying to keep me from Papa, or is it that he doesn’t want to see me at all? I ultimately decide it doesn’t matter. If Papa wanted to see me, he would have. It’s clear he doesn’t.

Tears blur my vision as I turn on my heel, looking for a quiet corner where I can disappear. But no matter where I go, I see people in black. Some I know, most I don’t.

The men wear dark glasses, walking with that custom, deliberate step, heads held high. The women, their giant hats hiding what might be teary eyes—or what seems like it—carry baskets filled with gifts.

When I first came downstairs, they handed me a napkin, patting my face as if to wipe away tears that weren’t even there. They shuffle around, acting like they belong, offering hollow condolences or helping themselves to food from the trays, all while the air smells of fake sympathy.

Now that the event seems to be winding down, their words shift from concern to pity, which I absolutely hate.

Others laugh, like this is some sort of reunion, while they stuff their faces, all smiles, as if nothing is wrong.

I feel out of place, like I’m not supposed to be here.

Why did it have to be Mama? Why?

And if things couldn’t get worse, Papa doesn’t even want to talk about it. Every time I try, he waves me off with some excuse about being busy. Busy with what, I don’t know.

He treats me like a plague while he drowns himself in rum and scotch.

I think back to that day. The chaos, the screams, the way the world seemed to tilt on its axis. “Papa!” I had cried out, my voice cracking as I begged him to save Mama. But he didn’t. He just… kept running. Chasing that man.

“It isn’t his fault,” I whisper, like a prayer, over and over every night, trying to justify how horrible what he did was.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to erase the memory, but it clings to me, like glass buried too deep to pull out.

How, even after the worst of it, he didn’t break down or lash out. He just… went silent.

And now? He’s cold. Distant. Like he’s shut himself off from everything, from me, and I need him to be my father now, more than ever.

The hums of every conversation blend into a low, constant drone.

I don’t want to talk to anyone, but that doesn’t stop some family members from calling out to me.

Family. That word feels all wrong now. What kind of family only comes when it’s too late? They weren’t here before.

Most of them haven’t been in our house for a long time, and now they’re acting like they care. I don’t want them here. They talk to me, but I don’t listen. I just say things to make them go away.

They move on quickly enough, their eyes already scanning the room for someone else to console. Someone who might make them feel better about themselves.

Eat, console, laugh. They rinse and repeat.

When most of them finally leave, the house feels quieter. I march away from the room, ignoring the pitying glances from the remaining people. Eager to escape the room, which is starting to feel suffocating, I pick up my pace, racing up the steps and down the hallway to my bedroom.

At the doorway, I grind to a halt. Val and I may have been twins, but being fraternal, we couldn’t be more different—and it’s evident in our decor. Mama had split the room in two, helping us bring our individual styles to life.

My legs automatically carry me to my twin’s bed, and I crawl into it, tears soaking her pillow. That day on the cliff, I lost everything, and I hadn’t even realized it until now. Papa is still alive, but he is as good as gone to me.

“I miss you, Val. I miss you, Mama,” I whisper.

I feel so alone, more isolated than I’ve ever felt. Even when Mama used to ground me for bad behavior. I’d give anything to have that again, to have a family.

The tears come before I can stop them. They’re hot and relentless, spilling down my cheeks and soaking into the sleeves of my sweater as I try to muffle my sobs. Crying feels like the only thing I can do lately.

Cry and hope that one day, the ache will dull into something I can bear.

I cried until my chest ached and my throat felt raw. But it didn’t make the pain go away. Nothing did.

After a while, I wipe my face and move from the bed, crouching to pull out the old wooden chest I keep hidden beneath it. It’s scratched and worn, the lid slightly warped from years of use.

Valentina and I called it our treasure chest. It’s where we kept everything that mattered to us—letters folded into tiny squares, old movie ticket stubs, crumpled notes we passed to each other in class.

I open it carefully, the familiar creak of the hinges stirring a pang of nostalgia. The contents haven’t been touched since before the accident. My fingers trace the faded photo strip on top—four little squares of us pulling goofy faces, our arms wrapped around each other.

I can almost hear Valentina’s laugh echoing in the back of my mind.

Beneath the letters and photos, my hand brushes against something cool and metallic. I pull it out.

It’s the medallion necklace—a delicate silver half-heart with my initials, G.M. , carved into it. Valentina wore the other half, the jagged edges fitting together perfectly. We promised never to take them off, but mine has been buried in this chest since the accident.

The last day I wore it was then, and I am never putting it on again.

The chain dangles from my fingers, and the pendant feels heavier than I remember. I stopped wearing it because it hurt too much, but now, I can’t bring myself to put it down.

I wish I had something of Mama’s to hold onto. Something real.

Then, a memory pops into my head.

I see Mama—she’s kneeling on the floor in her room, her fingers lifting a floorboard by the bed. I remember how she jumped when I walked in, her hands moving fast to put the board back.

I didn’t think much about it at the time. But now, it feels important, like a secret I need to find out.

I shove the chest back under my bed and tiptoe out of my room. The hum of conversation from downstairs drifts up the staircase, but I slip quietly into Mama’s room and shut the door behind me.

The air is cool and still, faintly scented with her perfume. I kneel by the bed, feeling along the floorboards until I find the one that feels loose. My nails scrape at the edges, but it doesn’t budge. Frustration builds as I dig my fingers in harder, the wood biting into my skin.

Finally, with a soft creak, the board lifts. My heart pounds as I peer into the dark space below.

There it is.

A small chest, almost identical to mine and Valentina’s, nestled in the hollow beneath the floor. My hands tremble as I lift it out, the weight of it sending a jolt of anticipation through me.

When I open the lid, my breath catches. It’s empty, except for a single folded letter.

The paper feels fragile in my hands, the edges yellowed and frayed with time. My chest tightens, a lump rising in my throat as I unfold it. The handwriting stops me cold. It’s delicate, slanted, and achingly familiar.

It’s hers.

My mama’s.