Everyone has heard of the Godfathers the definitive representation of what it is to be an Italian Mafioso, from the dusty mountainside of Sicily to the posh New York avenues.
Some choose to leave the fatherland for greener pastures; some turn the du...
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1 WEEK LATER.....
I looked down at my folded hands, the lines on my palms seeming deeper than usual. I hadn’t known my life would turn like this within a week. So many things had happened, but none of them good. I sighed, lifting my gaze to the distant church, its silhouette stark against the gray sky.
Stepping out of the car, I smoothed the unknown crease on my dress. I was wearing a black full-sleeve ankle-length dress, my heels and earrings matching in somber unity. From head to toe, I was draped in black, a visual echo of the grief that clung to me. I took a deep breath, steadying myself, and began the walk toward the old church.
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As I walked towards the church, my eyes fell on the graveyard. I stopped for a second, staring at the rows of headstones, feeling a strange mix of emotions—sadness, fear, and an odd sense of peace. The finality of it all, the way life just ends and becomes a name on a stone, was overwhelming. I shook off the feelings and continued walking, the old church looming closer.
I knocked twice on the door before entering the small room situated on the east side of the church. The familiar scent of aged wood and incense filled the air. I sighed in relief when I saw him sitting on the bed, dressed in black. His suit was neatly pressed, his shoes polished. For a moment, the sight of him ready and composed brought a sense of calm.
"I know it's not easy, but you have to do this," I said, placing my hand on his shoulder. He quickly shrugged my hand away, his disdain evident.
"Look, Luka, she’s gone, and she deserves a goodbye from her son. Let’s go," I said, standing up. He met my eyes, his red-rimmed gaze filled with pain and anger.
"It wasn’t her time to go," he murmured, his voice breaking.
"Luka..." I began, but he cut me off.
"She was murdered. The police informed me it was a hit and run," he said, the words heavy with grief.
"Luka, I understand, but what can we do? She’s dead. The police are investigating, and soon they’ll find the culprit. Your mother will be served with justice," I said. His eyes softened a bit at the mention of justice.
