“Well then, let’s stop moping about and get our asses to church. I’m sure Pop is already waiting for us downstairs,” I hear him lament behind me.
I do as he says, and trail after him down the stairs, my features schooled, yet again, to complete nonchalance. It occurs to me how I unintentionally left out the part where my uncle said to always use my head and not my heart. I fear, in all things, that I would be a perfect example of following his advice to a T. The cold, calculating part in me—that I inherited from my father—is one of my biggest assets, and as the next consigliere to rise in the syndicate, I will have to rely on my wits and brains in every last detail. But although I do not show it, I fear my mother lives in me, too, because I can be cruel and uncaring in all things—all except when it comes to Selene.
With her, my heart will always have the louder voice.
She will always be my weakness.
FIVE
Selene
Fifteen years old
Want to see a place where liars and sinners, thugs and murderers all walk around with their heads held high? Go to Sunday mass at St. Mary’s and you’ll see it up close and in living color.
Mafiosos pretending to be law-abiding citizens and God-fearing men for an hour or two, thinking it’s enough to cleanse their soul of all the evil they’ve done the past week. Two-timing husbands pretending to be loyal and faithful with wives dressed up in their classiest couture to hide the shame.
Here you will also be able to witness one of the biggest hypocrisies of all—my father portraying to be nothing but the caring, devoted, head of our household, instead of the monster that he is. How he can think his mask fools anyone in attendance is beyond me. Yet, parishioners pleasantly smile as they greet him—with nothing but flattering words of praise for his family on their lips, knowing full well what a sham we are—all too eager to gossip about our fabricated lives the moment we turn our backs to them.
It sickens me, but my presence is mandatory, and even if it wasn’t, I would still gladly come. Today after church we will all go to Big Sal’s for a late lunch where my best friend will be celebrating his sweet sixteen. There, I will have a few hours to be surrounded by the three boys that give my life any sense of sanity.
For the past month, this has been the one day I’ve looked forward to the most, since Vincent, Dominic, and even Giovanni, have been so busy with their extracurricular activities—aka, too wrapped up with learning God-knows-what under Big Sal’s tutelage—to give me any of their undivided attention. Well, maybe not under him entirely, but subordinated by one of his capos—Carmine DeLuca. In all fairness, I’m actually relieved they got him as their mentor, even though Gio might be struggling with the decision that his father is the one calling the shots.
DeLuca is rumored to break heads at every turn and be just as ruthless as my father, but he’s always been amicable to my mother and me. Even if he never said a word my way—since the man isn’t much for futile conversation—I see it in his eyes. There is as much good in him as there is the capacity to do evil things—much like Giovanni—even if he refuses to acknowledge their similarities. DeLuca might be known for being a no-nonsense hardass, but Gio isn’t a walk in the park either. The stubborn gene seems to have touched every generation in the DeLuca bloodline.
If my best friends need a captain to teach them how to be the next Capone, then I’m glad it’s at least one who hasn’t tarnished his soul completely or lost touch with his humanity.
Because of him, they will be acquainted to some sort of decency; unlike those attending any sermon Father Kirkpatrick delivers, because the last thing you'll find in a church filled with syndicate associates and their families is compassion and any sense of virtue.
Everyone looks so prim and proper, yet when they leave the church’s Romanesque style threshold, they lead lives that most would be horrified by. It makes you lose faith in every smiling face and every kind word. Who knows what the man taking communion does behind closed doors when no one sees him? Or what the woman sitting by your side, fidgeting with her rosary, must do to survive day to day.
Sometimes I wish I could be more like my mother. She still sees the beauty in God’s house, even if the dominating hand that holds hers in his tight grip was birthed in the fiery pits of hell. My mother’s time is carefully divided to attend to her diabolical husband’s needs, any of my own, and then to her faith and charity works. How my mother could ever muster the capacity of forgiving a deity who bestowed onto her such a cruel partner in life, is astounding to me. How she still tries to give hope to those around her, when no such thing is within her grasp, is nothing short of miraculous.
Yes, my mother is as saintly as they come.
I, however, am anything but. I’m my father’s daughter after all.
Forgiveness is not in my nature, nor is the illusion I will have a better fate than hers. I’m a realist, and long gone are any romantic notions that my life will turn out better than my benevolent mother. Well-intended quotes like ‘everything happens for a reason, or God does not give us more than we can bear’ are just veils clouding the truth from our eyes.
When you’re born to the Outfit, no matter your gender, the only comfort you can keep is knowing death comes to us all.
These notions dance around my head on a constant basis. My teachers think I’m wise beyond my years, but I can’t tell them that a year in a mafia family symbolizes ten to a normal human being. A normal wouldn’t understand, and I can’t say anything to make them either and risk exposure. Suffering the punishment my mobbed up so-called family deems appropriate for people with loose lips is flirting with the reaper himself.
“Selene,” my mother calls out to me, already at the church’s entrance.
“Coming,” I whisper-yell, not wanting to garner any attention of the parishioners who are trailing behind, gawking at the latest designer dress or whatever nonsense that’s preventing them from ushering out of here quickly.
I curse under my breath for having left my clutch in our pew. Tardiness is unacceptable to my father, and I know that holding him up these extra five minutes will cost me immensely when we get back home. I grab the black Valentino purse as quickly as I can and hastily walk back into the exiting crowd.
“Humph,” I choke out when I run into an imposing frame in front of me.
Damn it!
I hope my father didn’t see this little mishap or it will just add fuel to his creative discipline for my ungainliness.
“Sorry,” I grumble, pulling my hair out of my eyes.
“No worries, cara mia,” a smooth velvet voice replies above my head, and I have to lean back to inspect the man in front of me.
He has Dominic’s tall frame, if not an inch or two taller. From where I’m standing he looks 6’4” tall at least. Because of my clumsy crash into such a hard body, I assumed he was another jaded adult, but the youthful skin and lingering baby cheeks on his face give his age away. By my count, the guy in front of me is still very much in his teen years, if not close to the twenty-year-old borderline.