𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐬 | VMINKOOK

Mind, Body And Soul

1911

"How has school been?" My father asked as we were driven through the foggy streets of Manhatten in one of his brand-new Mercedes cars.

My first instinct was to wrap my arms around my waist, but I could still feel the large bruise on my ribs burn with the slightest touch against it. I wouldn't tell my father that the kids at my boarding school in Calabria bullied me every six months I stayed there. I wouldn't tell him that the teachers thought I was too soft to be trained as a mafia leader. But I knew my father was already aware of these things. He had always known me better than I knew myself.

"Fine," I mumbled.

"Are you lying to me?" My father asked in a way that barely sounded accusatory.

"Yes," I regretfully admitted.

The Mercedes turned round the corner, and we drove past a young blonde teenager who stood leaning against a lantern pole. He seemed a little bored, as though he was waiting for someone to meet him, but for a split second, his striking blue eyes met mine, and my world stopped spinning for what felt like an eternity.

The wind ruffled up his yellow curls, and his lips curled into a smirk when he noticed just how captivated I was by his beauty. He was a young, modern day Apollo, and just for that rushed moment, I wished nothing more than to be his Hyacinthus.

"Tell me," my father went on as the modelesque blond became nothing but a speck in the distance. "Do you cry when they beat you?"

"...no, father," I answered despite my occupied mind, keeping from glancing back at the handsome boy just one more time. "Or-- I try not to."

"Don't ever let them hear you cry, mio figlio. All those kids want is to see you break. To push you to the edge and drive you away."

But what if they never stop, father? I wanted to ask. But I held my tongue, knowing that my father would only tell me to just endure the pain forever.

"Do they talk about your mother?" The man asked, his voice softening in a way that wasn't like him.

I swallowed thickly. They called my mother a Chinese whore who seduced the capo dei capi, and said that she cursed the entire family by giving him a weak son.

I wouldn't tell my father about those things, though. I didn't think the man owned a heart, but still, I didn't dare risk hurting it.

"I don't listen to them," was all I said. "Their words can't make me bleed."

_____

We stepped out of the car after arriving at one of my father's smaller estates in a part of Manhattan I'd never visited before.

It looked rather unkempt and forgotten, but the vines running along the roof of the mansion and it's old wooden exterior gave it a whimsical atmosphere.

I didn't know why my father had taken me to such a desolate place, but I knew it wasn't going to be for a weekend holiday.

I followed my father around the house to the backside garden, which was just as unkempt as the house and overgrown with weeds and bushes.

A man was sitting on his knees in the tall grass, tears running down his face as he sobbed over the lifeless body of a woman.

I gulped when I saw Rossi with a gun in his hands, and realized that the scene in front of me might've been a tragedy of some sorts.