Mafia's Angel

sabela

s under trees. It looked so calm, not like my real life at all. My bedroom suite was full of fancy things: heavy cream curtains tied with gold rope, old dark furniture

dn't see

rong glass. Fancy, Papa called them. Protective. But to me? They were just fancy gold bars on a very expensive cage made of silk and fear. And watchi

. Camila, my maid since forever, had already put my clothes out on a chair: a plain linen dress, light blue, simple enough for breakfast wit

the hall. Breakfast. I sighed qui

her eyes I didn't remember from when she used to try and coax a scared eleven-year-old out from under furniture. Did she feel sorry for me? Did she hate me?

iny marble. Two guards stood like statues near the west wing hall where Pa

ing windows, scattering brilliant little sparks off the heavy silver forks and waiting crystal glasses. It made the room feel too bright and cold. Quino looked up when I came in and ga

is house. But here? He looked... smaller. He sat hunched a little in his chair. His expensive suit looked too big on him now. His hair, once thick and black, was

m being sick, weaker than before. But you c

o him. The room smelled like strong coffee and the sh

talk, like always, felt stiff, like business. Quino reported quickly about some shipping problem – not too many details, Papa hated small details unless they were reall

ed things were normal. But Papa's weakness wasn't just his shaky hands; it made the whole dangerous balance of our lives unsteady. Everyone knew it. Everyone felt it. The worry was al

d. Quino flinched. "Idiots!" Papa hissed, his face getting a little red. "Ar

ed, his voice tight, controlled. "T

t the anger seemed to tire him out quickly. He looked drained. He waved a shaky hand like he didn't care anymore. "Just... see it doesn't happen again," he finish

t familiar tight knot of worry in my stomach. This was just our life – quiet tensi

od to leave the dining room. My chest loosened up. I felt like I could finally take a real breath. I walked fast back to my

hen, walking with purpose, I went to the corner by the window, where the old wooden chest sat. I knelt beside it. The rug was thick and soft

et. My small rebellion

full of history, learning. Stone arches and falling leaves. Students rushing between classes, talking about poems and ideas

old walls, sunny courtyards, classrooms filled with serious faces. Normal faces. Young people worried about exams, planning fun trips, falling in love without the threat of

ecrets and coming danger... it felt like wishing for the moon. Impossible. Crazy, even. Papa would never let me. Quino would think I was betraying the family. And ye

s rows of books, quiet readers bent over tabl

ump-thum

. Coming down the hall

ambling, my fingers suddenly clumsy and useless with fear, I scooped up the shiny pages. I shoved them blindly back into the pouch. The footsteps halted right outside. God,

side my door. A sharp, commandi

. Sharp. Impatient. "Pap