Rosalia
Sitting in the shower with hot water pouring down, I hug my knees and feel nothing but numbness. Despite the thick steam fogging up the glass, I can't stop shaking.
Pink droplets, tinted with my father's blood, drip onto the tiles. The memory of finding him in his study, lifeless on the floor, plays repeatedly in my mind like a relentless horror film.
Today was supposed to be perfect. This morning, my father was at the breakfast table with his usual newspaper, waiting for me. Don Vincezio Santoro—feared or respected by everyone in Chicago—was simply my father to me. He put down his paper to hug me, his scent of aftershave and pipe tobacco familiar as ever. This morning was special; it was my eighteenth birthday.
It's hard to remember how beautiful the morning started. The day was sunny and perfect, with the manicured lawn and climbing roses that have been a part of my daily life. I was excited to see what my father had planned, what surprises he had in store for me.
Right now, my father's advisor, Enzo, is downstairs handling everything after my father's death. He was the only person I could think to call, the only one I knew my father trusted completely, except for Angelo. But Angelo has been gone for three years, and I knew better than to call him. He had distanced himself from us for reasons my father never explained, and any mention of him was shut down. Still, I thought about him while I sat on the floor of my father's study, and Enzo found a maid to help me upstairs and clean up. I knew Angelo would want to know, even though my mind was foggy with grief.
All I can think about is finding my father on the floor of his study, his blood dark against the hardwood, the fire in the fireplace still burning cheerfully. My world had just shattered.
My hands are still bloody, so I clench them into fists, pressing them against my eyes until I see stars. I don't want to see the dead body in my mind anymore. I want to remember my father as he was this morning, at the breakfast table. I want to see his smile, waiting for me to notice the pastry and iced coffee he had set out for me. I want to see him lighting a candle in the middle of the cinnamon roll, the flame flickering over the icing and butter.
"I wasn't sure when you would come down, mi vida. So I left the candle unlit. But now—"
I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood. He'd lit the candle, singing me happy birthday off-key, as he did every year. 'Your mother would have sung it more beautifully. Like the angel she is now. Make a wish, cara ragazza."
I made the same wish I make every year: for the coming year to be as happy as the last. It had always come true. This morning, I had no reason to think it wouldn't.
"What am I supposed to do?" I whisper to the empty shower, my heart aching. The shower smells like sweat and iron, my own flushed skin, and blood filling the air instead of the sweet scent of shower gel and shampoo. I want to disappear, to make all of this disappear.
I feel like I have no one to turn to. My father trusted Enzo, but I'm not sure I do. I have no friends to call on, no one to comfort me. My father tried to introduce me to other mafia daughters, to help me make friends, but I could never relate to them. They all hated their fathers—men who saw them as currency, raised them for marriage.
My father was my friend and confidante. He was kind, honest, fair, and intelligent. He made sure I didn't feel the loss of my mother too deeply. He never refused to answer my questions or made me feel like my only future was a marriage he would arrange.
He had planned a perfect day for me—spa appointments, a day of luxury and pampering, and gifts waiting at home. The note he left me is now something I'll cherish forever. This morning, it was just a birthday note. Now it's the last note I'll ever have from him. I remember it by heart, even now, even with everything tormenting me.
To my dear daughter,
Even though you are all grown up, you will always be my little treasure, just as you have been since the day you were born. I look forward to many more years of seeing you grow into the talented, intelligent, and beautiful woman you are becoming.
Love,
Your father
I rest my head against the shower tiles, trying to remember that night. It was the last perfect night with my father. I replay it in my mind—putting on the lavender dress he gave me, putting on the earrings, going to the car waiting for me at eight p.m. sharp. I got into the cool, leather-scented car, and he was there, leaning over to kiss my cheek and smiling. It was a special night, one of many we thought we'd still have.
"Did you like your birthday presents?" he asked, and I nodded.
"Thank you. They're perfect, especially the earrings." I touched them, hanging from my ears, and his smile grew but with a hint of sadness.
"Those were your mother's. I got a new box and had them wrapped, but they were hers. I have more of her jewelry, but those will wait until you're married."
"Oh." The gift meant even more now. "I'm so glad I have them." I touched the earrings again, not wanting to take them off. His mention of marriage made me nervous, as he rarely talked about it, and I wondered if he'd start looking for a match for me. "I'll wear them every chance I get."
The ride to the restaurant was quiet—my father seemed lost in thought. As the car stopped, he shook himself out of it and got out, the driver opening my door. He'd brought us to a fancy sushi restaurant in the city that I loved. We were shown to a private booth, and he smiled as the waitress brought chilled lychee sake and water.
"You shouldn't technically be drinking this," he said, pouring sake into small cups, "but what's the point of being one of the three most powerful men in Chicago if my only daughter can't have a drink on her eighteenth birthday? Plus, we have a driver." He winked, clinking his glass against mine, and we both took a sip.
I'd had some alcohol before—mostly wine during holidays—but this was different. It was sweet but burned my throat a little, and I coughed, making him chuckle.
"Not too much," he warned, though he let me refill my cup. "Just a special treat for your birthday."
"How did your meetings go?" I asked as the waitress brought appetizers. His smile faltered for a moment, almost imperceptibly.
"They were fine," he said quickly. "But tonight isn't about business, mi vida. This is your night. And I want to talk about your future."
That anxiety grips my stomach again, and I take another small sip of sake, picking up the jade chopsticks by my plate. "What do you mean?" I ask nervously. "Is this about me getting married?"
My father laughs. "No, Rosalia. I'm not marrying you off at eighteen. I want to talk about whether you'd like to go to college. We can enroll you for this fall—you can study whatever you want. It's up to you. I can hire another private tutor to teach you at home, but I thought you might enjoy going to campus to learn. You'll have security with you and still live at home, of course, but—"
"I would love that." The idea is both nerve-wracking and exciting, and my heart leaps at the thought. "Maybe I could study literature?" The possibilities thrill me, and I look at my father, waiting to see his reaction.
"You don't have to decide tonight," he says, chuckling. "Just think about it, and we'll discuss it later." His expression turns more serious, and he sits back, looking at me. "You will have to get married eventually," he says quietly. "But there's plenty of time for that. We don't need to talk about it just yet."
Not just yet is good enough for me, for now. The rest of the dinner is relaxing and fun, with us talking about lighter things—summer plans, a possible vacation, my father admitting he works too much. We eat too much food and still share dessert, and on the way home, I can see he's tired. It must have been a long day with all his meetings. Once we're home, he gives me a smile.
"I'm going to bed early," he says. "Good night, mi vida."
"Good night." I stand on tiptoes to give him a hug and another kiss on the cheek, then go upstairs. I'm tired too, relaxed from the day at the spa and full of sake and sushi. I get ready for bed, washing my face and slipping into my favorite pajamas before getting into bed and reaching for a book.
I read for about an hour before I can't keep my eyes open any longer. I switch off the light and am almost asleep when I hear a sudden noise downstairs, something like a cry of pain, followed by a heavy thud.
I sit up, unsure if I was dreaming. The cry could have been an animal outside—a cat or a bird. But the sound—
I thought it was just a dream. But I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, even as I lay back down. I shouldn't have felt afraid in my own house, but as I got up and walked across the bedroom and into the hall, all I remember feeling was a cold knot of fear in my stomach. Something felt wrong as soon as I started down the stairs.
I remember checking the master suite first. My father hadn't gone to bed yet—the king-sized bed was neatly made, his slippers at the edge, the room quiet and dark.
I thought about going back to bed. But something inside me told me to go downstairs and not to turn on any lights. The lower part of the house was dark, except for my father's study, where the door was slightly open, letting out a warm, yellow light.
I told myself it was nothing. Maybe a book had fallen or he had stubbed his toe. I imagined walking in to see him by the fireplace with a glass of port and a cigar.
When I pushed the door open, I did see him by the fireplace. But he wasn't in his favorite leather chair, holding a glass of wine, or smoking a cigar. He was—
Sitting in the shower, I rub my hands over my face, hard enough to hurt, watching the last of the blood wash off and go down the drain. I want to erase the memory of finding my father face down on the hardwood floor, his hand reaching for something, the table next to him overturned with a broken glass, wine mixing with the blood on the floor. I want to forget my own scream, the way I collapsed to the floor, and the smell of blood that I'll always recognize now.
I don't know what happens next. But I know my life as I knew it—the life of Don Vincezio Santoro's beloved daughter—is over.
Who I'm meant to be now, I have no idea.
