My lungs instantly seize, cutting off the precious air I desperately need.
Riccardo’s been shot. Oh my God!
The words are carved into my soul, merciless and painfully slowly. My heart stutters before slamming hard enough against my ribs to make me feel dizzy.
Stumbling a step forward, fear coils tight in my stomach, sharp and feral, sinking its claws deep into me.
I begin to pace my bedroom like a trapped animal, and every time I turn, the walls feel closer. The air is too thick, pressing into my body until it feels like I’m being crushed to death.
I lift a trembling hand to my chest as if I can physically stop my heart from tearing itself apart.
Riccardo.
A wail rips loose from me. All the fear that’s haunted me for years, telling me I’ll lose everyone until I’m left with nothing but bloodstained memories, is becoming a reality. It’s a tormenting force that devours every rational thought.
I can’t lose my baby brother. He’s only twenty-seven. He just got married. This is supposed to be the happiest time of his life.
My vision tunnels, the edges darkening, and panic surges hotter and crueler than before through me.
Flashes of when I thought Christiano was dead bombard me, mixing with the storm created by the attack on my little brother.
When my legs give out, I collapse onto the bed, my fingers clawing at the sheets like they can anchor me to reality. I curl into a fetal position while my breaths hitch and sobs tear loose from my tight chest.
I’m assaulted by one memory after another.
Riccardo’s smile. His voice. His laughter.
The body beneath the white sheet. Christiano’s bloody jacket. The destructive agony when I thought he was gone.
The possibility that we might lose Riccardo twists like a blade into my pounding heart, deeper and deeper until I feel my sanity fraying. Fear drives me toward the edge like it did all those years ago.
Shaking violently, I wrap my arms around myself and try to hold onto the last of my sanity, because if I don’t, I’ll be consumed by the horrible emotions devouring me.
My blood roars in my ears as I groan into the covers.
I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.
My anxiety spikes dangerously high, becoming relentless and suffocating until fear is all I am.
Alone in my bedroom, trapped inside my own terror, I break apart, piece by piece, praying to all that’s holy, Riccardo won’t die.
I have no idea how much time passes until a faint shudder works its way through me, my body shedding the last remnants of panic in slow, uncoordinated waves.
I try to turn onto my side, but my muscles don’t listen. Every movement is sluggish, like I’m pushing through mud that keeps trying to pull me under. My arms feel heavy and foreign.
I hate this state.
I hate the helplessness of being trapped inside my own body, screaming orders it refuses to obey.
I hate how powerless I feel beneath my own skin, all my emotions trapped under the fog pressing down on my chest.
Women like me aren’t allowed to break, yet I fracture into a million pieces every time something bad happens.
We’re raised to be strong, taught that weakness isn’t allowed in the Cosa Nostra. Where fear gives the other women power and control, forging them into strong queens who rule beside their men, it does the opposite to me. It unravels me until I’m barely sane, while reducing me to a fragile woman who will never be an asset to a man like Christiano.
The drugs I took before I passed out hum through my veins.
Mom and Dad.
