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MIRABELLA

T he salty breeze from the sea air plays across my hair as I bring two bowls of cioppino to a table sitting on the patio. I skirt around the rest of my tables, refilling drinks, and taking orders before heading into the kitchen and slumping against the counter.

“You overwork yourself, mimma .”

I sigh as I look over at the older woman. Thick gray hair is pinned up to her head with a clip, her weathered skin a deep olive with lines around her eyes and mouth. They are more prominent as she smiles at me. This woman who gave me a job, took me under her wing, acts like a grandmother to me. Hell, she calls me mimma , which means child. But we aren’t related. She used to be childhood friends with my grandmother. I always think that’s why she has cared for me in such a loving way, like family. Like the family I wish I had and not the one I am stuck with.

I moved to Sicily ten years ago. Escaping from the mess I got myself into. My real family is still close and they know where I live but it’s nice that they are not breathing down my neck every second of the day. Demanding things from me I don’t want to give. If my parents were still alive everything would be different. I wouldn’t feel like I am constantly watching over my shoulder, wouldn’t feel like I was walking a thin line between life and death. But that is the reality of my situation. The life I was born into.

But it’s not the life I want for my daughter. It’s why I ran here instead of being in Genoa where the rest of my family lives. I wanted a life for her that felt safe, where she didn’t have a shadow hovering over her at all times. I made a deal with my family to live this life. And for some reason, they have agreed to it. My baby is safe even though I’m not. And maybe it’s a lie I tell myself that she is truly safe. Because I don’t think you can ever be safe when your family runs one of the largest mafia organizations in Italy. Not even just Italy. I know their power reaches further than that. Across Europe and no doubt to the States. But I try not to think about the blood that runs through my veins. The life I never wanted. I could have had everything I wanted ten years ago. I almost did. But just like fate would have it, I fell for the wrong man. A man who would have me killed if he knew who my family was. But that part of my past I try not to think about. Not that the thoughts don’t rack my brain and dreams frequently. It’s a life that I could never have. It’s impossible now.

“ Mimma ?”

I blink a few times, shaking the thoughts from my head. “Sorry, Magda, it’s been a long day.”

“You need to take a day off. I told you that you don’t need to work five days a week here,” she scolds me.

“I know but Aria loves being in the kitchen and helping you with the pastries. I might as well make some money while she is here.” I stretch my back and grab the plates she sets in front of me.

“You know I am more than capable of watching her while I work. She is a smart girl. She doesn’t get into trouble.”

“I know.”

“You need to take some time off. I don’t even remember the last time you took a vacation.”

I yawn as I make my way to the kitchen door. “I don’t need a vacation, Magda. I have everything I need here. A beautiful home, an amazing daughter, and you. What else could I need?”

Her eyes crinkle as she stares at me. “I may be old but I am not stupid. You need a man, Mirabella. You are wasting your good years.”

I roll my eyes as I walk through the doors to bring lunch to my tables.

“You don’t have many years left for another baby,” I hear her yell as I step outside.

By the time the lunch rush is over, I am exhausted. Maybe Magda is right and I need a vacation. I haven’t taken time off in eight years. Not since I had Aria. I let myself live off my family’s money for a year while I watched her grow. And when she turned one, I told my family I didn’t need them anymore, and I went back to work for Magda.

When I moved to Cefalù I had no idea what I was doing. I just knew that my grandmother had a home here and it was still in her maiden name. In my parents’ will, I found they passed it down to me. My mother left me a letter telling me it was always her escape from father when times got rough and she knew I would appreciate it. My grandmother’s childhood home has a simplicity and luxury to it I wouldn’t have expected. She lived here until she married my grandfather when she was only seventeen. He was vacationing in this peaceful seaside town and it was love at first sight. She didn’t learn until later that he was the son of a mafia don. But from my memories of her, she never regretted it. Never hated her life.

I wish I had her composure and her strength because the second I was old enough to understand just what the family business was I was resentful. I remember my thirteenth birthday. I had invited kids from the private school my parents sent my brother and me to. I never had many friends but my mom promised me I could finally have a birthday party. I was thrilled, excited, I thought this may finally be the chance to build friendships with my classmates. But when the time came. No one showed. I waited for two hours by the pool. I remember feeling foolish as I cried. My brother laughed at me. My mother tried to soothe me but my father sent her away. He then told me the truth. Said that I was old enough to know. That I would never be able to have friends because their families were too scared to associate with a family like us. I told him I didn’t understand. He said I would learn quickly. He gave me a knife for my birthday that year.

“Mama!” I hear Aria shout as she runs through the seaside restaurant, dropping her football bag, and launching herself into my arms.

“Hi, sweet angel.” I wrap my arms around her, breathing in the strawberry smell of her luscious dark curls.

She pulls back from me and I look into her sapphire-blue eyes. “I got an A on my science project!”

I smile at her as I push her wild curls out of her face. “I’m so proud of you. I know how hard you worked on that.”

She starts spewing off everything about her project and the science fair as I think about the destruction she made in the kitchen last week. She may only be eight years old but I can tell my family’s blood runs through her veins with her fascination with explosions. I’m sure other parents would be worried about their kid’s allure to explosives but I’m not. Besides, it was just a volcano project but she may have used more than just baking soda and soda water. I might try to keep her away from the mafia as much as possible but I know she needs to learn these skills. I can only protect her for so long. Maybe it’s because after my father gave me that knife, I became obsessed with it. I shut down all the feelings a thirteen-year-old girl should have and learned to like weapons. It all changed when my parents were murdered.

“Do you want me to make you dinner?” Magda asks as she wraps her arms around Aria.

I look at the clock. “No, it’s fine. I need to get her to practice and it’ll be cold by the time we make it home.”

“I can drop something off.”

I shake my head. “It’s not necessary. I have something I can scrounge up for us after practice.”

Magda tsks at me as Aria heads to the bar to talk to Magda’s husband, Salvatore. “You have been here since you dropped her at school. Now you take her to practice and then get home and make her dinner.” I go to cut her off but she beats me to it. “Then you help her with homework before putting her to bed. And I know you, Mira. I know that you then sit in a chair on the balcony and watch the waves as you drink enough whiskey to make you forget the past. You can’t keep doing this to yourself. You need to take a break. You need to live your life. Not your past.”

I pinch my fingers between my eyes, sick of the same lecture I get weekly from her. “All that matters is that little girl.”

Magda purses her lips and eyes me with disdain. “You need to take care of yourself, mimma . Because when you burn yourself out, who is going to take care of her?”

“I will always be there for her.”

She shakes her head. “Until you’re not.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs. “I have orders to make. And she is going to be late to practice.”

I groan as I walk away from her. I’ve never told her or Salvatore about my past. About Aria’s father, about my family. But from her hints, I wonder if she knows more than she lets on.

I pick up Aria’s football bag and wave goodbye to Salvatore as I walk my daughter to practice.

* * *

By the time I get Aria tucked into bed and I’m sitting on the balcony drinking whiskey, all I can think about are Magda’s words from earlier. And the said realization I am doing exactly as she said.

I swallow down the whiskey my glass, feeling the burn slide down my throat. The bottle is sitting next to me on the table and I pour another glass of the pot still Irish whiskey. It’s one of my favorites. The smoothness of it hits my tongue before it warms my insides all the way down as it reaches my stomach. I toy with the label on the bottle as I try not to think about my past. About a time when I thought I was going to have everything I wanted. Until it all came crashing down. Of course the events that led to me moving here ten years ago were nowhere near as painful as that day two and a half years ago when I sat just inside the house with the news on. A story that should mean nothing to me broke my heart all over again and to this day I still feel its burn. The ache so deep inside of me I wonder if it will break me.

I close my eyes as I hold back tears I haven’t let myself shed in ten years, except for that day two and a half years ago. The only tears I let myself shed for him. I swallow the lump in my throat then pour myself another glass of whiskey to drown out all the memories that threaten to flood to the surface.