Mafia Princess

The silence downstairs feels unnatural, especially for a Sunday afternoon. I glance at my phone - 12:15 PM. By now, the living room should've been filled with the sounds of football and my family's cheers or groans.

Growing up in a working-class Philly household means Sundays are sacred - not for church, but for the Eagles. Dad, uncles, cousins - they'd all crowd around the TV, beers in hand, living and dying with each play.

Me?

I'd retreat to my room, finding any excuse to avoid the chaos.

This weekend's visit home from Philadelphia University is no different. I'd been holed up since breakfast, relishing the quiet. But this silence? It is eerie.

I sigh, flopping back on my childhood bed. Philadelphia University isn't far - just a short drive from our South Philly row home. Close enough to visit, far enough to breathe. Mom keeps hinting I should move back, and save money. But the freedom? The space to figure out who I am beyond the Pietro name? That is priceless.

The Pietro name. It carries weight in these neighborhoods, a mix of old Irish and Italian families. As a kid, I never question why people treat us differently. Why do Dad's "business associates" stop by at odd hours? Why do politicians show up at our backyard barbecues.

"Your father is an important man," Mom would say, brushing off my questions about his work. "That's all you need to know."

But kids aren't stupid.

We pick up on things, and piece together fragments of overheard conversations. By high school, I'd figured out Dad's "import business" probably isn't entirely on the up-and-up. The way people look at us tells me everything I need to know.

The silence downstairs gnaws at me. No shouting at the ref, no victory whoops. Something is off. I swing my legs off the bed, curiosity getting the better of me.

Our house had always been a hub of activity, with deliveries arriving at odd hours. Expensive clothes, gourmet foods, even electronics - they'd show up on our doorstep like clockwork. Mom and Dad would distribute most of it to the neighbors, brushing off my questions with vague explanations about Dad's "import business" being generous.

As a kid, I never question the constant flow of gifts. But as I get older, I can't help but notice how different things are for my brothers, Riccardo and Tommy.

They have freedoms I can only dream of. Late nights out, no questions asked. Cash to blow on whatever catches their fancy. And when they hit their late teens? They start "working" for Dad. Suddenly, they are rolling up in flashy cars, decked out in designer threads.

But something about it never sits right. The hushed conversations, the way they'd clam up when I entered a room. It wasn't until my freshman year at Philadelphia University that the pieces finally clicked.

I was at a party, chatting with a guy from my Poli Sci class. He'd had a few beers and was getting loose-lipped.

"Pietro, huh?" he'd said, eyebrows raised. "As in the Pietro family? The Irish mob?"

I laugh it off, but my stomach drops.

Mob?

No way.

Not my family. Not my kind, generous father who always has a smile and a helping hand for the neighbors. Not my goofy brothers who still give me noogies and call me "squirt."

It is like a veil has been lifted, and I feel like an idiot for not seeing it sooner. The gifts, the favors, the way people defer to us - it isn't generosity. It is power. Fear. Control.

The dad who'd read me bedtime stories, the brothers who'd taught me to ride a bike - are they really capable of the things I am starting to suspect?

Looking back, it's almost laughable how naïve I was.

I'd lived my whole life in this happy, oblivious state. Sure, I know we are different, that we have more than others. But I never question it, never fear it. It is just... life. Our life.

I shake my head, pulling myself back to the present. The silence is still unsettling. I tug off my headphones, straining to hear any sound from downstairs. Usually, even with music blasting, I can make out the rumble of voices, especially when the uncles are over. But now? Nothing.

Frowning, I move to the window. Two large black vans are parked across the street, their tinted windows reflecting the midday sun. Something is wrong.

But what?

My mind races through possibilities. Maybe a distant relative has passed?

I creep to my bedroom door and ease it open. The upstairs hallway looks normal, untouched. But as I inch towards the stairs, I catch the faintest murmur of voices from below.

Then I hear it. A sound that makes my blood run cold. Mom is crying.

I grip the banister, my heart pounding as I take that first step down. Swallowing hard, I force myself to keep moving. Each step feels like an eternity, my mind racing with possibilities. Had there been an accident? A break-in? I try to shake off the images, but they cling to me like cobwebs.

As I reach the bottom, the world tilts on its axis. My brain struggles to process what my eyes are seeing.

Bodies.

So many bodies. Uncle Mike, sprawled by the couch. Tommy crumpled near the TV. And Dad... oh God, Dad.

Blood.

It is everywhere.

Splattered on the walls, pooling on the hardwood floor I'd helped Mom polish just yesterday.

How? How could this have happened without me hearing a thing? There are signs of a struggle - an overturned chair, a shattered vase - but nothing to explain this... this massacre.

I stand there, paralyzed. My family. My invincible, larger-than-life family, is reduced to broken, bloodied shells. This can't be real. It has to be a nightmare.

A whimper cuts through my shock. Mom. And then, a man's voice, low and menacing.

"Where's the money, Mrs. Pietro? Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

Mom's voice, trembling: "Please... I told you, it's not here. I don't know where-"

Another voice, cold as ice: "Kill her. We're wasting time."

The world snaps back into focus. Mom. They are going to kill Mom.

Without thinking, I shout, "Stop!"

"Aura?" Mom's voice is filled with terror. "Run! Get out of here, now!"

But I can't leave her. I bolt for the kitchen, my feet slipping in the blood. Maybe I can grab a knife, call 911, do something.

I barely make it three steps before two men materialize, blocking my path. One is built like a tank, with jet-black hair and eyes like slits. Before I can react, he slams me against the wall, pressing something cold and metal against my Philadelphia University.

A gun. Some kind of compact machine gun.

The cold metal of the gun presses against my Philadelphia University, and I feel my heart racing. Rage and fear course through me as I stare at the men who have turned my home into a slaughterhouse.

"Let her go, you bastards!" I scream, struggling against the iron grip of the man holding me. "Haven't you killed enough people today?"

The other man, shorter but just as muscular, smirks. "Feisty one, ain't she? And not bad looking either."

"Shut up," growls the one holding the gun to my head.

More footsteps echo through the house, and two more men appear from the direction of the study.

"Nothing downstairs, boss," one of them reports.

An older man, clearly in charge, nods curtly. "Check upstairs. Quickly."

As they thunder up the stairs, the older man turns his attention to me. He presses his own gun to my forehead, his eyes cold.

"Should I kill her?" he asks, glancing at my mother.

Mom's face goes even paler. "Please, no," she begs.

The boss smiles, a cruel twist of his lips. "She is pretty. Could be useful." He looks back at my mother. "Tell us where it is, and your daughter lives. Simple as that."

I see the conflict in my mother's eyes, the desperation. Whatever they are looking for, it isn't worth my life. But giving it up... I can see the fear of what that might mean.

"Mom, don't-" I start, but the gun presses harder against my skin.

"There's... there's a hidden compartment," Mom says, her voice barely above a whisper. "In the bedroom closet. Behind the shoe rack."

The boss nods, satisfied. Then, without warning, he raises his gun and fires.

The sound is deafening. Mom's body crumples to the floor, a neat hole in her forehead. Blood pools around her head like a macabre halo.

I scream. An endless, piercing wail that feels like it is being torn from my very soul. This can't be happening. It can't be real.

"Shut her up," the older one orders, annoyed.

The last thing I feel is a sharp pain as the butt of the gun connects with my skull.

Then, mercifully, darkness.