The mafia queen

Elena

Is it considered an omen if my story starts with a funeral ? Maybe I’m being selfish since it’s not my funeral. Or maybe I’m not being humble enough by claiming this was when my story started. The word story feels redundant. Maybe nightmare is a better word.

Maybe I should start from the beginning. My name is Elena Morelli, and I’m twenty-four years old. I work with my family in our bakery, that’s been in our family for generations. It was a small shop in the corner by the bus stop, but no one made delicate Italian pastries and desserts like us.

They were all my nonnas recipes passed down by her mother and her mother before that. It felt so tranquil being in the bakery where I wasn’t anybody but myself. I wasn’t someone’s daughter or someone’s sister.

I was simply Elena, and simply Elena was happiest when she baked. The bakery was a front for many of my father and brother’s dealings, but if I closed my eyes hard enough, it didn’t bother me. It didn’t bother me that Enzo hated me working, and it didn’t bother me that my mother would rather I get married and have a hundred kids.

The only one I trusted with my soul was my nonna and father. My father spent most of his days in bed with an oxygen tank, and I spent my time reading him stories or telling him all the new flavor combos I had thought of and written down.

He couldn’t speak much, his voice crackly and raspy, but he’d smile and nod at me. Those were always enough. I’d smile and nod my head back. Enzo was my elder brother, and once our father got sick, he took over the family business.

The illegitimate family business. We were Italian. Proud Italians. We were also the very-well known Morelli’s. The Morelli’s were known for our expansive and expensive weaponry and heroine. My brother took over the dealings and everything business related since my father couldn’t get out of bed.

Enzo was more ambitious than my father and far greedier. He didn’t do things the way our father did, instead choosing to do everything more savagely and brutally. He was more murderous than my father and claimed that death and violence were the only way to keep our enemies scared of us and at bay.

We used to have a pact with the Russians, but when my father was forcefully retired, and Enzo took over, the Russians grew cautious of a man who had no morale and cut off ties. I didn’t know much about the Costa Nostra world, but I was smart enough to know who our enemies were. Besides the Russians, the Irish were the second Mob that Enzo hated with his entire soul.

The Irish Mob was ruthless and was very well known in all of Nevada. They dealt with drugs, alcohol, and explosives. Their trades were expanding all over the state, and I knew Enzo was hateful of how successful their leader was.

The Callahan Irish Mob was dangerous and threatening ; from what I’ve heard, their boss was a violent savage. No one truly knew what he looked like, and the gossip around Henderson was that you never got to have two chances with him.

It was rumored that he killed his men and wife and wouldn’t mind sacrificing his own family for his greed and ambition. There was much talk like this about the Callahan mob leader, but no one truly knew what his deal was.

No one’s ever gotten close enough to find out. Our world was terrifying, and Enzo ensured my safety by having his men guard the inside and outside of the bakery. His men were as ruthless and as violent as Enzo, all besides one. Marcelo Gallo.

He was my brother’s secondhand man, and I’ve always had the biggest crush on him. Of course, it wasn’t reciprocated since Enzo would probably murder a man for touching me, but I still enjoyed and liked Marcelo from afar. He was a few years older than me and was not only skilled with his gun, but he was intelligent and funny, and kind to me.

Marcelo rarely spoke to me, only when he had to, but sometimes I’d catch him staring at me. Despite my brother’s overbearing tendencies, I wasn’t a virgin, but the stricter Enzo became, the harder it was to have a social life.

The only close people I had to me were my cousins and my family. Enzo didn’t trust a single soul outside himself, which showed when he spoke with our family. The world we lived in was cruel like that, it was untrustworthy at times, and I guess Enzo knew better than me in such aspects.

I didn’t know much about the drugs, the money, or the illegal measures my father, Enzo, and his men took. I knew things revolving in and out of a kitchen. I knew about cooking and baking. I more than enjoyed baking and decorating.

I didn’t mind that it wasn’t feminist of me to love being in a kitchen but fuck it, I did. I wasn’t street smart like Enzo, but my father insisted on me taking combat classes and going to the gun range, and I knew how to take care of myself well enough.

Thankfully, I never got an opportunity to test out my skills. It was a typical Monday morning ; the sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and I sang and danced with my cousins in the backroom while we prepared the fillings and creams.

So calm. Until it wasn’t.

Marcelo and Gio walked inside the kitchen, where we were preparing the desserts. All my brother’s men wore the same uniform. All black. They always had weapons on them and spoke both Italian and English. Enzo required all his men to have short hair so they weren’t quickly subdued, and Marcelo wasn’t any different.

« Elena, » Marcelo spoke.

His dark eyes looked stern as he ushered me over. I set the bowl, whisk down, and grabbed a towel to dry my hands.

« What is it ? »

« It’s your…father. Unfortunately, he’s passed away. »

« W-What ? No, it can’t be. He’s fine. I saw him this morning. »

Stage one ; denial.

« Why are you lying about this ? Why would you say such things ? » I screamed at him.

Stage two ; anger.

« No ! No ! » I shouted. « You’re lying ! »

Stage two ; anger.

They don’t tell you how long you stay in the second stage, but I wanted to stay in it forever. I wanted to live in it. I wanted to be angry for the rest of my life. It hurt to be sad and mourn because I wasn’t in that accepting stage. I was just angry. I couldn’t stop screaming, couldn’t stop breaking whatever was nearest to me.

When I finally crumbled down, I wished I had stayed down. My father was my entire world. He was my best friend and the only person I loved to be around besides my nonna. It felt like betrayal knowing that God took him but spared me.

I was angry that he had died and left me behind, and I hated myself daily for blaming him. My mother’s cries and screams filled the vast house we lived in, and at night, all you could hear was my nonna praying.

I spent the nights leading up to the funeral in her room, on her bed, holding onto her fragile body as she whispered prayers in my ear and played with my hair. It hurt to remember him how my nonna wanted us to remember him. It hurt to know that he had passed away ; despite him going peacefully, it still did nothing to ease the pain and ache in my chest.

Enzo took care of the funeral arrangements, and even though all we had to do was show up, it didn’t make the experience any less painful or any less draining. It was exhausting burying him. It was anguish to hear people speak of him.

I felt like a ticking time bomb, so close to exploding. I felt like an active volcano about to erupt. I was filled to the brim with anger, remorse, and this revolting feeling of betrayal. We had barely put my father into the ground before Enzo dragged me to his office to talk business.

Enzo was my elder brother, and I respected him very much, but we were never close in the traditional family sense. He sat where my father used to sit and ushered me to sit on the chair in front of his desk.

It didn’t feel right to see him sitting there in a chair that my father used to sit in. It felt corrupt, or maybe it was too fast. I couldn’t know for sure. Enzo’s colored hair was clipped and short, always in that army style cut with big, observing, and demanding hazel eyes.