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Amelia---Touchstones

AMELIA, AGE NINE

The rain hides the tears streaming down my face. It violently ricochets off the bronze casket currently draped in roses. Mama would have hated it. My skin crawls beneath the black lace of my sleeve. Papa had insisted on this dress, his desire to present me as a woman apparent. I’m just a little girl. His large hand grips my shoulder, squeezing harshly. A warning. Pulling my upper lip between my teeth, I pray for my tears to stop.

I am not allowed to grieve; the expectation to maintain decorum now falling to me.

I see Papa’s men walk toward us, puddles splashing onto their pant legs as they move. Each one shielded by dark sunglasses. It is not sunny. I am the only one without a veil to hide my true emotions. Papa leaves me, meeting the men at his command. His absence is a slap to my face, a reminder of what I mean to him—what I am to him. Santiago offers me a small smile as Parker comes to stand with me. Her hand brushes mine in a silent offering of support. If anyone here understands the undertow I’m currently fighting, it is her. Nikolai stands across the cemetery, his body harsher than the stone that will mark Mama’s grave. I see his father nod at Papa, a silent acknowledgement between families.

I watch the grounds staff lower her casket beneath the dirt. My feet refuse to move from this hallowed spot. I lift my gaze, finding Papa’s back turned to me, his focus on business at hand. Parker pulls me into her side, hiding the sobs wrecking my body. We aren’t particularly close but it doesn’t matter. I pull the sleeves of my coat over my hands, wiping my nose roughly.

“I’m sorry, Amelia.” Her voice is soft. Soothing. She is the first person to speak to me this way, the only person to acknowledge my loss.

“Ames,” I whisper into her jacket, the plaid fabric comforting in a way my mama was. “She called me Ames.” Parker’s grip tightens on my shoulder as she nods. I want this one last piece of my mama to live on…for someone else to call me what she once did.

Parker releases me, angling her body so that we are facing each other. Her green eyes are clouded with sadness. My pain is one she knows well; the sole bearer of her lineage, left in the pits of the devil’s playground.

She pins me, resolution in her features. “You and me, Ames.”

AMELIA, AGE SEVENTEEN

Darkness sweeps walls, the only source of light coming from a cracked door at the end of the hall. Papa had been angry at dinner, his body wound tighter than a snake coiled for attack, and I know something—no, someone—has earned his displeasure. I creep along the hardwoods, my feet soft against the dark grains. I’ve learned to hide, to make myself blend into shadow, as a way to survive the inevitable.

I can hear him, the way he growls skittering like shards of glass upon my skin. The conversation becomes clearer as I near the office, a slap causing my feet to still. I wait, keeping my eyes trained on the light streaming through the small gap, the anticipation of being found overwhelming me. Holding my breath, I hear the sliding of a chair. Papa orders someone to be restrained. I hear the sliding of a drawer, one I know is perpetually locked, filled with secrets I’ve not been deemed worthy to learn.

My feet shuffle slightly, moving me forward until I can peer into the room. There he sits, the king of all, his hands steepled as he rules with an iron fist. There is no room for mistakes, no margin of error in this life. You live and you die by the rituals. By traditions. By rules dictated and enacted by the generations before.

I see Rafe standing behind the wooden chair, restraining someone as Papa watches. I don’t care for Rafe. His beady gaze makes my skin crawl. I really hope Papa doesn’t make me marry him. I don’t know if I’d survive that, honestly.

My eyes dart to where my father sits, landing on the gun before him. My heart sinks with the realization of what I am about to be exposed to. His face is hardened, barely more than stone, and he slips a knife beside the gun.

Papa doesn’t give choices. His word is law and those who serve him bow at his feet. I can hear sputtering as Rafe shifts, revealing the body restrained. I don’t recognize the back of the man’s head, the salt and pepper melting into deep brown. Surely he is one of Papa’s soldiers, but what his name is, I couldn’t be certain. I watch as my father stands, rounding the desk, and stopping in front of the man. Turning slightly to grab the knife, Papa rests one hand on the soldier’s forearm. Whimpering begins to fill my ears as the blade closes in. I can hear Papa ask a simple question. All of Papa’s questions are simple. Either the answer pleases him…or it doesn’t.

Screams bounce off the walls as my father flays skin from muscle, each millimeter lifted resulting in agony. Papa doesn’t do anything quickly; every decision, every movement made is meticulous and calculated. He pauses, gently laying the piece of flesh in the man’s lap before leaning in, their noses touching. The soldier can barely utter a response, his head shaking and hips bucking in an effort to break the restrains placed on his body.

No one leaves Papa’s office if he doesn’t allow them to.

Minutes turn to hours, each breath I take more painstaking than the last. The whimpers have morphed to sobs, and the once whole man now sits broken and resigned to his fate. The head of the Conte Family is ruddied-faced, tendons popping from his neck as he erupts. Fuck.

Papa grips the soldier’s hair, yanking his head back and pushing the bloodied blade into his neck, making sure the pressure is firm against the man’s carotid artery. One misplaced shift, and the man will die. I press my hand to my lips, struggling to contain my gasp as tears run down my cheeks.

Turn it off, Amelia. Turn. It. Off.

AMELIA, AGE TWENTY-TWO

Papa is away, and for the first time, in what feels like forever, I am able to breathe.

The blade sits in my palm, its edge taunting me as I glance at the makeshift target. It’s a picture of Rafe, the image hidden behind my closet door. No one dares to enter my bedroom, but I trust not a single soul under Papa’s employ. They are all beholden to him—restless bodies in need of a paycheck, some without morality. Rubbing my lips together, I question my own existence.

I am the daughter of the most feared man in Chicago. The offspring of il cupo mietitore , the city’s very own Grim Reaper. Death and devastation is woven into my bloodline, so innately part of who I am. The weight of my lineage is overwhelming. Who I am and what I must become are vastly different, and if I am to survive in a snake pit of men overseen by the devil himself, then I cannot allow weakness.

I don’t know the last time I cried. My emotions are locked behind a fortress of steel, impenetrable, though most men have tried. It has been a revolving door of suitors, as Papa calls them. Men who have been deemed worthy of marrying such a prize. I huff, the thought of myself being a prize amusing. Women reduced to barely more than cattle, living only to provide an heir and ensure that the men are entertained. The looks these men have given me, as I sit gracefully in Papa’s office? Atrocious. It is as if they see me naked, beady eyes roaming my curves.

None are comparable to Rafe’s glances, however. I’m glad Papa took him on the trip this time. I consider the target once more, determination settling along my spine. One deep inhale and on the exhale, I fling the knife toward the target, smirking when it hits dead center.

If only.

AMELIA, AGE TWENTY-FOUR

My palms slap against the wood. Papa leans back in his chair, steepling his hands as he considers my outburst. “I demand to be in the room. You cannot keep me from this.” My chest heaves, anger pulsing through my body, and I am livid.

Papa thinks I cannot handle the dark side of this life. He would much rather see me relegated to hosting fancy dinners and being a woman who does not speak her mind.

Fuck. That.

My eyes do not break contact with his. I have one year until I must marry someone of his choosing and I will be damned if I allow a man to place his filthy foot on my throne. This is my chair. My name. My fucking legacy. But, Papa doesn’t see it that way. Despite having beat all emotion from me. No, I am nothing more than a womb to him—my importance now becomes one of child-bearing.

“You know that I can handle it.” I fling my hand toward Santiago, hoping he’ll chime in. “He knows. This whole fucking Family knows.” I clench my jaw, glancing down before lifting my eyes to him once more. “I have trained for this. You built me for this.” Santiago grunts, and I refuse to acknowledge him.

“You are a woman, Amelia.” I watch as Papa sets his jaw, the spine of Chicago’s most feared going ramrod straight. “Your place is not among bloodshed, among brutality.”

“My whole godsdamned life is shrouded in brutality. I was raised in it!” I sneer, fully aware of my escalating tone. “YOU demanded it of me. YOU decreed that I was to be married, forever cementing MY PLACE IN HELL.”

Papa stands abruptly, the feet of his armchair scraping the hardwood floors. “You will respect me, bambina. You best remember your fucking place,” he says, the quietness a deception of what lies beneath. Santiago moves toward us, but Papa raises a finger and halts his footsteps. Papa moves around the large desk, and I stand, pivoting to maintain my position.

“I am your daughter.” I take two steps toward my father, our toes meeting. “I am the last of your bloodline.”

He erupts, the veins in his forehead now popping against his tanned skin. “No, my daughter would FUCKING BACK DOWN AND DO HER DUTY TO THIS FAMILY.” Shame begins creeping up my skin, slithering into the spaces my father has carved over the years. I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, waiting for the final blow. This is what he does, and it is a dance I know well. “Look at that, silent. As you fucking should be.” Papa spins, walking from me before facing Santiago, dismissing me from his office.

I’ve never been one to go silently.

“I am Amelia fucking Conte, daughter of il cupo mietitore . You cannot deny me my birthright.”

Santiago’s gaze lifts to meet mine, a swirling of fear and admiration within it. I see my father become the Head of this mafia family. His body straightens, the broad shoulders rolling back, and his hands clench themselves into fists. Papa slowly turns to face me, and I see the instant my father is no longer in the room. No, I’m dealing with the devil himself.

“You want to play with the men, bambina?” His voice lethal, causing every hair on my body to stand. Papa stalks toward me, coldness now settled in his eyes. “Fine.” He reaches me, and I freeze as his hand flies up. The slap stings, pain radiating across my face. I cannot react, I cannot allow myself to give Papa the satisfaction. This isn’t the first time he’s hit me, and I know it won’t be the last. Made men keep women in line…by any means necessary.

Papa brushes my shoulder as he passes, knocking me off center. He walks out the room, Santiago nodding my way, telling me to follow.

The walk to the basement feels longer than I know it to be. Hidden behind a false wall, Papa’s torture chambers lay ready for his bidding. For his…entertainment. The air here is different, echoes of screams heavy in the chill. There is a man, tethered to the ceiling, his hands wrapped in thick chain. My stomach drops and I can feel my heart trying to escape my chest.

Turn it off, Amelia.

Papa circles the man, a smirk growing on his face. “Well, here we are. Tell me, figlia, is it everything you dreamed?” He runs his palm down the man’s side before yanking him, stretching the restrained body further. The man screams, eyes now wild in his pain. “Would you like to return upstairs?”

I see Santiago out the corner of my eye, standing at a metal table filled with implements. Something in my gut tells me that the next decision I make will decide my future. I step further into the room, shedding my sweatshirt to reveal my black tank top. “What did he do?” I tilt my head, waiting for a response I may not get.

“He crossed Dimitry and his Pakhan called in a favor.” Dimitry is Nikolai’s father, the leader of the Russian Bratva. He is one of the six families, and an ally of Papa. I move forward, noting the injuries already inflicted upon the offender. His skin is mottled with bruises, the flesh sliced open, and he’s missing a few toes. Because his hands are above his head, the man’s body is stretched to the limits, barely allowing him to brush the concrete floor. I spot a blade on the ground, the blood on it now dried. Dropping to a crouch, I grab the weapon and peer up at my father. I’m not sure what he expects me to do but I do know that whatever I do, I will be a disappointment.

Papa comes closer, and I wait. “I want him skinned alive. You, dear daughter, will be the one to remove his brand.” I breathe deeply, the realization of just how far into the devil’s lair I’ve gone hitting me. “You asked for this, remember?” I stand, gripping the blade firmly. Approaching the man, I am overwhelmed with the stench of urine. I run my eyes up his body, stopping once I reach his face. I don’t recognize him, but then again, I was usually in the courtyard with Nikolai and Parker, not roaming the halls of the Pakhan’s estate.

“Where is his brand?” I ask, my focus not leaving the man before me. I hear my father come up behind me, his breath now hot on my neck. “There,” Papa whispers. “Just at the base of his ribcage. I’ve already broken three of the ribs, so peeling Dimtry’s mark from this stronzo will only add to his misery.”

I can see the edges of it now, the scarred skin. “You’ll take that last, Amelia.” Papa continues, and I can hear the satisfaction in his voice. “You’ll save his brand. It will be the final thing he will feel.” I can feel the whimper begging for release in my throat, but I cannot allow it out.

There is a dark corner of my soul that I must retreat to, one I’ve been crafting for the last two years. Every spare moment I’ve had, the endless tears, the never-ending sweat, the way my soul is tired inexplicable. I swallow harshly, preparing myself for what I am about to do, and remove myself from Papa’s reach. My hand shakes as I raise it, the tremors traveling down my arm. I can hear Santiago say something, Papa responding, but it doesn’t matter.

Turn it off.

Amelia Conte no longer exists. She is now a monster, crafted by bloodlines and honed by legacy.

The man before me tries to evade my blade but I collar him, my fingers barely reaching the sides of his neck. I bring the blade to his shoulder, slicing the skin there. I call for Santiago, asking him to hold the man still while I work. The bastard is dehydrated, his skin like leather despite the sharp steel in my palm. I become methodical, never allowing my eyes to leave the flesh before me. The world fades away and I feel a sick sense of conflicted comfort. It is soothing, taking control of my future regardless of the price I have now paid.

I don’t know how much time has passed but blood is now painted on my skin, sticky and overwhelming. The man hanging has passed out, his skin nothing more than strips of tissue. All that remains is his face and Dimtry’s brand. I no longer feel, my existence numb the way it was when I put my mama in the ground, rain pelting my face.

“This is what you wanted, bambina. Now, finish it.”