Carmen
The funeral was a week later and carefully planned. It was hard to be grieving so fiercely but not daring to show it, for fear of being seen as weak—the fastest way to get a bullet in my own head.
I grieved in my own room, and during the day I took over, planning the funeral according to how I knew he would like it. Bianca took over some things, but I made sure I was the one in charge, pretending not to notice how much of a large shoulder she offered for me to cry on. Her own tears had dried up on the third day.
The service was a huge affair, and invitations were sent out to all the other three mafia lords regardless of how much I didn't want to. I was convinced that one of them—if not all—had killed Father.
Vito Corleone was in charge of the East, and John Gotti of the Gotti family owned the Southern District. Alphonso was said to own the North, but there were rumors that someone else had taken over.
Someone I didn't know.
But regardless, I sent out the invitations, confident that the Don would make himself known sooner rather than later.
My dress was picked out for me and all I had to do was wear it. It was black, long, and shapeless—exactly what I asked for. It was coupled with a hat and a veil that would shield my face from everyone who would be watching.
There was a compulsory mass, which my father would have cursed me from the grave for if I chose to skip. There was something about mafia families being religious, and our family wasn't an exception.
After mass, we all moved to the graveside and watched as his coffin was lowered into the ground while I struggled not to cry.
You'll cry later, Carmen. In the comfort of your room, I reminded myself, especially when Bianca moved closer to stand beside me. She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, but I was close enough to notice how dry her eyes truly were.
Not surprising, since her and Father's marriage was simply one of convenience.
Her family had the resources he needed, and marriage was better than the other terms offered.
At least it must have seemed so at the time, I thought, seeing how she might have had a hand in his death.
"I'm not in the mood for a conversation," I told her directly, my tone cold.
But she didn't back down.
"Grief and rest. You're the heir, but aren't you interfering in the managers' work a bit too much?"
"The way you act is like one of them killed him," she said, her tone sharp but low enough that we couldn't be overheard.
"…and how do you know that if you were grieving?" I pointed out, since her business was clearly in my business.
"Until the will is read, you have no right to take over! I'm his wife!" she said with more authority than I had ever heard in her voice. Her gaze remained lowered, but there was enough fire in her tone to make the meaning clear.
"Back down," she said.
But I was too tired to listen anymore.
I moved forward to say a few blessings and watched until the coffin was fully buried before heading back.
I was exhausted, and it was for that reason that I didn't notice how much fewer the guards were.
Those at the gates, at the entrance, and even those by my room.
I wanted to take a nap—something that had been eluding me for days. I swallowed painkillers to keep away the raging headache as I moved over to my bed.
A gun rested on my bedside table, which I felt was more than enough protection as I dove under the blankets.
I didn't hear them until they were on top of me.
But I had two guns, and the other I clutched in my hands as I slept.
I fired, shooting one of them in the chest, only for the other two to hold me down. A sickening smell filled my nose—one that had my hands going slack as I slowly lost consciousness.
The next moment I woke up to loud gunfire, which was a surprise.
I was groggy and bound, but I could still hear it.
Surprised, since I was sure that whatever gun was being shot should have been aimed at me—but it wasn't.
I was confident that whoever had abducted me wanted me dead, especially since it had to be an inside job.
It had to be.
My head was too heavy to stay awake, but when I did finally wake up I was in for a much greater shock.
The lights were too bright, and I squinted hard, stunned to hear the loud voice of a man speak and say words that I quickly understood.
"Beautiful woman! Blue eyes, dark hair, pale skin!" he screamed. "Her value is much greater than she looks too! For those that know… they know…"
"A million dollars!" he called out.
I squinted my eyes harder trying to see. My head continued to pound in pain, but my heart raced just as hard.
I was being sold and that much was obvious.
And worse, I felt too powerless to stop it. I was mad, and it only got worse as I heard him speak.
"Five hundred million to the well-dressed man in front with the gold cane!"
"Six hundred million to the older man behind him!" the auctioneer continued as rage boiled within me.
I was aware that the only people who carried gold canes were the mafia Dons as a show of power.
Someone had kidnapped me from my home, and now I was being sold.
Yet beyond the anger was the tiniest bit of relief as I looked down and stopped trying to open my eyes. As long as I wasn't dead, then there was nothing stopping me from killing them all.
I thought that as I heard words that sent my heart racing and skipping beats.
"A billion!" the host gasped, shock and greed in his voice.
"Sold! To the young gentleman at the very back. She is yours!"