The False Heir of the Mafia

POV Isabella

I like being late to these kinds of meetings. There's something powerful about making others wait, especially when the room already smells like fear before I step over the threshold. My father knows that, which is why he never scolds me when I open the door with the timer at twenty minutes over the hour.

It's part of the theater we both put on to maintain our family's dominance over the others.

Tobacco smoke floats over the long, precious wood table. Expensive, like everything else in the room. I move with firm steps, back straight and jaw up. Height is my weakest point, so my attitude has to compensate. The goal is to intimidate.

"How nice of you to join us, Isidro," my father says without looking up from his papers. "I guess you were finishing up some unfinished business."

I nod and take my seat to his right. My seat is slightly higher than the rest. I can see the bitten fingernails of the attendants and how they tremble slightly as they reach for the glasses of whiskey.

At the table are the usuals: Don Alfieri and his dog-faced sons, the Gallo brothers who never split up, a lawyer whose last name I always forget, and the guys no one talks about, but who appear out of nowhere, carry away the corpses and clean up the mess.

They all turn their heads towards me, waiting for me to make a move. A nod, a greeting, a threat, whatever. It is almost never necessary.

My father reads the week's minutes: numbers, routes, names. Nothing I hadn't already heard in the office with him the night before, but I repeat the information in my head: training demands perfection. I get bored in ten minutes.

The lawyer proposes an adjustment in the percentage of shipments. Alfieri's son throws him a hate-filled glare and continues chewing gum. My father lets the tension escalate, he enjoys this game of caged animals.

Sometimes I forget that he does care about power. I, on the other hand, just want to survive another day.

"Anything else to add, Isidro?" asks my father when the lawyer's voice dies in the air.

I shake my head. No need to speak, my silence is enough to seal the deal.

The assistants gather their things in haste, no one wants to be with us for longer than is strictly necessary. A couple pretend to look at their cell phones, as if it's possible that their wives or children are more dangerous than me. I make eye contact with the Alfieri's youngest son and he looks down. There are rumors that he's being sent to college overseas. He won't last a week there.

The meeting ends, but my father holds me back with a gesture. When we are finally alone, he pours himself a drink and sets another in front of me. He knows I don't drink, but he wants to remind me that the glass is for me. It is a symbol.

"Good job," he says. "They're terrified, as they should be."

I just look at him. I know he is proud of his creation, of what I am. Not of my name, not of my existence, but of the weapon he trained for years, for my whole life. I look back at him with total neutrality.

"They're saying you're too hard on them," he adds with a half-smile. "That they'd rather deal with me than my son."

The pride in his voice is pathetic.

"Don't be afraid of them," I tell him. "They won't dare do anything."

"Of course not," he replies and toasts the air. Then he drains his glass in one long gulp. "But it never hurts to watch your back."

When he finally gives me permission to leave, I walk down the corridor slowly. The service personnel turn away, avoiding my gaze. It's okay, I prefer silence to condescension.

I don't wave, I don't smile, I don't stop for anyone.

My room is in the south wing, away from my father's bedroom. It is small and functional. It has a bed, a desk and a closet, nothing personal in sight. No one knows my real name or my tastes. No one has entered here without my permission.

I close the door and lock it. Now I can breathe.

I sit on the edge of the bed and take off my shoes. I loosen my tie and unbutton my shirt. My fingers get stuck in the buttons, habit is an enemy. I tousle my hair, dark and short, as I've always been forced to have it.

I get rid of the shirt and the elastic bandage I wear to flatten my chest. As it falls to the floor, I allow myself to exhale. I feel myself deflating, ceasing to exist.

From the closet I pull out the old robe I've kept for years. The worn fabric rubs my skin softly, very different from the expensive suits I wear every day.

I go to the bathroom and wash my face. The mirror returns a different image: the jaw less marked, the eyes more sunken, the small cut on the right eyebrow that never finished closing. I take a quick shower. I never linger because I can't afford to be naked for long in case something happens.

I go back to the room, close the curtains and turn on the minimal light.

I lie down on the cold sheets, without a pillow. I stare at the ceiling, counting the tiny cracks. I try to imagine what my life would be like if I could be someone else, if I could stop running away from even my own body.

I think about escaping, about leaving this theater behind. Of cutting all ties and starting from scratch in another country, with another face and another name. But then I remember my father's lessons, the perfection demanded, the condemnation of being the only child of a monster.

I sigh deeply. Like every night, I fall prey to a tiredness that goes beyond the physical, to a hangover without alcohol.

I get up, pick up my bandage and my shirt and throw everything into the laundry basket. Tomorrow I'll be Isidro Ricci again, the relentless executioner of all the bastards in town. The man-child my father always dreamed of.

But tonight I'm just Isabella. And that's more than enough for now.