1 Death

Matteo and I sat at the dinner table, our eyes fixed on the door, waiting for Mom. The bell announcing dinner time had sounded long ago.

Our nanny Marianna stood against the wall, looking first at the clock on the sideboard, then at us. Father seldom ate with us, but Mama always did, at least during dinner, even when she was barely on her feet. She was always on time, in case Father decided to show up.

"Where is she?"

"She got sick?"

Yesterday she looked pale, except for the blue and yellow marks on her face and hands after her father had once again "brought" her. She often did things wrong. With our Father, it was hardly possible to always do right. Things that were acceptable yesterday could be wrong today. Matteo and I often broke this or that rule and were also punished.

Matteo took out his knife and stuck it into the bowl of puree, which was no longer steaming, then popped the food-covered blade into his mouth.

Marianne clicked her tongue. "One day you will cut yourself!"

Matteo dipped the knife back into the puree and then licked it off the blade, chin thrusting stubbornly.

"I won't cut myself." I pushed back my chair and stood up. It was forbidden to leave the table before dinner was over, but Father was not at home, so I was in charge of the house, since Matteo was two years younger than me.

I walked around the table. Marianne stepped towards me.

"Luka, you shouldn't…" she trailed off as she looked into my face.

I was like Father. That's why she was more afraid of me than Matteo. Well, because I was to become a Capo. Soon I will be the one who punishes everyone for their mistakes. She didn't follow me when I went out into the lobby and then started up the stairs.

"Mother? The supper is ready."

No answer. I stepped onto the landing and made my way to my mother's bedroom. The door was ajar. The last time something happened, I found her sobbing in bed, but it was quiet inside. I opened the door, swallowing. It was too quiet. Light poured in from the open bathroom.

Downstairs I heard the voice of the Father. He returned home from work. He was probably furious not finding me at the dinner table. I should have gone downstairs and apologized for it, but my legs were relentlessly guiding me towards the source of the light.

Our bathrooms were finished in white Carrara marble, but for some reason, the light coming from the room was tinged with pink. I stepped into the doorway and froze. The floor was covered in blood. I saw her often enough to know it at once; and the smell... the taste of copper and something sweet, the smell was even sweeter today because of my mother's perfume.

My eyes followed the river of blood, then the trail of dried blood on the white tub, to the limp hand on it. The white flesh was dyed crimson. And that hand belonged to Mom. It was her, even though she looked like a stranger. Frozen like a statue, her eyes were dull brown. And they were still looking at me, doomed and lonely.

I took a few steps closer.

"Mother?" one more step. "Mom?" She didn't react. She was dead. Died. My gaze caught on the knife lying on the floor. It was one of Matteo's knives, a black karambit. She herself did not have any weapons.

She hurt herself. It was her blood. I looked at my feet. My socks were soaked in the red liquid. I staggered back and, screaming, fell on my back, slipping. I hit my back hard on the floor, and all my clothes, and myself - everything was covered in blood.

I jumped to my feet and flew out of the bathroom, mouth wide open, my head pounding, my eyes burned. Bumped into something. Looking up, I saw my father's angry face staring at me. He slapped me across the face.

"Stop yelling!" My lips closed sharply. Did I scream? I blinked at my father, but his image blurred. He grabbed me by the collar, shaking me.

"Are you crying?" I wasn't sure. I knew crying was forbidden. I never cried, even when my father beat me.

"Answer!"

"Mom is dead," I croaked. My father raised his eyebrows, noticing the blood on my things. He walked past me into the bedroom.

"Let's go," he ordered. I noticed two guards standing in the lobby with us. They looked at me with a look that I could not understand.

I froze.

"Walk, Luka," Father hissed.

"Please," I said. Another thing that was forbidden: supplication. "I don't want to see her again."

Father's face twisted into rage, and I braced myself. He rushed towards me and grabbed my hand.

"Don't you dare say that word again." And no tears, not one fucking tear, or I'll burn out your left eye. And you will be a mafioso with one eye.

I nodded briefly, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. I didn't resist when my father dragged me into the bathroom, and I didn't cry again, just stared at the body in the bathroom. Only on the body. Gradually, the roar in my chest subsided. It was just a body.

"Pitiful," my father muttered.

"Poor whore."

My eyebrows drew together. The women Father met outside the home were whores, but Mother was not. She was his wife. The whores gave my father whatever he wanted, and therefore he did not take it out on his mother so much. This was how she explained to me what was happening. But that didn't convince me.

"First!" his father yelled. One of the bodyguards entered. He wasn't called "First", but Father didn't care about his name, he didn't bother remembering the names of ordinary Soldiers and gave them numbers.

The first one stood next to me, and as my father carefully studied my mother's body, leaning close with a cruel smile, he squeezed my shoulder.