The Last Boss' Daughter

Pietro was already here when we got here, and—to my horror—approached us as soon as we walked in the door.

He didn’t acknowledge me though. Didn’t even look at me. It was like Paul walked in alone. Pietro came over, put an arm around his shoulder to pull him in real close, and hauled him away. I caught, “Now tell me how this happened,” before Paul laughed a little nervously and they disappeared inside my dad’s old study.

Now I’m sitting on an ugly fucking floral couch that my mom picked to replace our old one. She remodeled everything after my father’s death, systematically, room by room. First she just wanted to replace the carpets, then the downstairs bathroom, then the upstairs bathrooms really needed revamping as well. The entryway, so outdated! And before long, the only thing left of my father’s home was the crystal chandelier hanging in the foyer.

I haven’t been in this house for dinner in a long time. When Paul and I first got thrown together, we came over biweekly, I think just so everyone could make sure I hadn’t run away. I was so furious at every single one of them for not stopping the wedding that I wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t eat. I sat there glaring at anyone who would look at me, and smacking Paul’s hand away when he inexplicably tried to caress it on the table. Maybe he thought I wouldn’t do that in front of my family. Maybe he thought I’d be meeker.

Eventually he gave up on that lost cause and we stopped coming to the horrible dinners.

Then we only came over for holidays. Not how I wanted to spend my holidays anyway, but it didn’t matter. There was no better alternative.

For our first Christmas together, my mother had given me the gown I was christened in. I held the soft fabric in my hands and stared at it, horrified at the prospect of birthing a half-Paul child to stuff into it. As soon as my doctor’s office opened after its Christmas break, I made an appointment to go on the pill.

Shaking off the memories being in this place stirs in me, I stand. I’m bored and I don’t know where my mother is. Paul is still closed up in the study with Pietro.

I make my way back to the foyer and gaze up at the massive chandelier. On Christmas Eve, we always put Santa’s milk and cookies on a little round table underneath it. Normally Mom had a doily and a vase of fresh flowers on the table, but for Christmas Eve we used it for Santa. Sometimes I left him a little thank you note, in anticipation of the presents he would give me.

Even the damn table is gone, replaced by one of metal and glass. A new vase full of flowers rests on top.

My heart accelerates as I make my way upstairs. I never go upstairs. The halls I used to make my father chase me down are up there, and my shrieks of laughter as he lumbered after me still echo off the walls. My childhood bedroom is up there, though I’m sure it’s been remodeled into something unrecognizable at this point. She probably gave it to her new daughter; not because there were no other bedrooms, but because it had been mine.

Sorrow washes over me the moment I step foot on the landing upstairs. I consider turning back; the last thing I need is more sadness.

But I go forward. I can see the heavy oak door of my old bedroom. More memories, insignificant shit: painting my nails at the desk in the corner, listening to pop music and gazing lovingly at the photo of the boy I had a crush on, curling up in my bed after an inconsequential fight with my mom.

The world had been alive and full of possibilities for the girl who lived here. She could’ve never ended up like me, and yet, here we are.

I push open the door. The creak as it swings open sounds amplified and I look around the hall, paranoid that someone will come, like I’m doing something I shouldn’t be. Trespassing.

I feel like I am.

This isn’t mine anymore. I don’t belong here.

I step inside anyway, and surprise floods me at the sight of the same delicate pink walls, the same posters and picture frames I had decorated with.

Nothing has changed.

My room is untouched.

The girl who slept here no longer exists, but somehow, all of her belongings remain unmolested.

I hate myself for the faint trickle of tenderness that pools around my heart. Why? Why would she leave this room, of all the rooms, as is? She can’t even have an accent table that reminds her of our family, but she left my whole bedroom exactly as I’d left it.

And I do mean exactly.

Stretched across the unmade bed is the nightgown I wore the night before my goddamn wedding. If I picked it up and brought it to my face, it would probably still smell faintly of the optimistic hopes and dreams of a girl who was certain her mother could never go through with betraying her so horrendously.

I step away from the bed and hasten over to my dresser. If everything is still the same, that means…

A smile transforms my face as I pull out the diamond and ruby ring Daddy gave me for my 16th birthday. It was the last gift I ever got from him, and I’d regretted not wearing it the day of the wedding so I’d still have it. Afterwards, I was too angry to go back for my things. The following day when I was supposed to go pack, I’d been too traumatized. I hadn’t left the bed. Three days later, I still hadn’t. Eventually they gave up and Paul brought home a suitcase full of things my mother had picked out from my dresser. That was it, every belonging I brought with me from my old life into my new one. I’d never stepped foot in my old bedroom for anything again in the ten years between then and now.

The ring still glistens as I move my hand in the light. I don’t wear Paul’s wedding ring, so I put it on my bare ring finger. It’s as beautiful as I remember.

“What are you doing in here?”

I start, clasping my hand protectively as I turn to see Sofia, my 7-year-old half sister. She has a touch of my mom in her, but it’s Pietro’s chilly eyes that look out at me.

“This used to be my room,” I say, since I really don’t have an explanation for what I’m doing in here.