Page 13 of Tempting My Mafia Monster

I had it in me to kill. If I believed they deserved it and had the means, I could take a life. Not that anyone would believe I’d be capable of such a thing.

I hid my darkness well. Always had. It was easier to let people believe I was shy, timid and awkward. I was sweet and innocent-looking enough, with long brown curls often styled with bows or pretty clips, to be seen as no threat. I wore delicate dresses and didn’t speak to strangers. My adult social anxiety let me hide behind it, allowing everyone to underestimate me. And I felt safer that way. Less exposed.

Until I was four, I’d only ever spoken to Santino. Throughout my childhood, I gradually learned it was safe to trust my voice with family members. But that was as far as my circle grew until my siblings married and had children. By the time I was ten and forced to see a therapist by my oldest brother, Giovanni, I’d been diagnosed with selective mutism.

I grew up knowing I was different. But Sani called it my superpower. My special form of defence and control. I had a voice. I just didn’t let the world have it.

Selective mutism doesn’t stem from a single childhood trauma, as many believe; it’s a pattern of learned silence. I was raised hearing and seeing the devastation words could cause in my world. A secret shared could mean someone’s death. A sentence spoken to the wrong person meant betrayal. Overheard private conversations could harm my family. And there were always people around. Guards, soldiers, maids, gardeners, and other criminals. Adults in the mafia listened too closely. They asked too many questions.

My papi was murdered before I ever had time to know him because of a family betrayal. My mamma’s mental health and bipolar disorder had always made her seem unstable to me. Her mood swings were unpredictable. Her tears and outbursts were gut-wrenching. Then her happiness and sunshine were breathtaking, but with the sharp, bittersweet knowledge that it was fleeting. I never wanted to say the wrong thing.

Anxiety spiked when I was expected to speak. When people waited for my words, when the pressure built and the situation felt suddenly dangerous, my throat closed and I wanted to disappear.

But as I grew up, I also learned that silence was power and often rewarded. It made me seem compliant. Many men in the mafia world outside my family believed I was ‘well-trained and respectful.’ I became known as the ‘good, quiet, easy one’. The fragile, shy Buccini princess, who wore pretty dresses, buried herself in books and music, and shut out the real world. I wasn’t a threat to anyone. And I didn’t mind it. It was easier to fade into the background while the rest of my family shone in the spotlight.

Once I felt safe with someone, my body allowed me to speak. But the moment I felt uncomfortable or threatened, whether it was an innocent group dynamic or, let’s say, being kidnapped by the Irish mob at war with my family, my anxiety spiked and triggered a shutdown.

But it was fine. I already knew how to survive in silence. I didn’t panic outwardly as most people would in such a high-pressure situation. Instead, I went still. I observed. I stayed calm.

I just needed to survive long enough for my family to find me.

Temptation

“Where’s my money, Declan?”

The man sobbed through blood and snot as he lifted his swollen face and shook his head. “I’ll get it. P-please. I just need two more days.”

“You said that two days ago. And I gave them to you after breakin’ your wrists. But here’s the thing,” McKenna replied evenly, crouching and wiping blood from the man’s bleeding cheek with his silk handkerchief. “My kindness has a limit. So you either tell me where I can find the money in the next thirty seconds, or…” He glanced over his shoulder at me. “I’ll unleash my monster on you. And trust me, I’ve been playin’ nice compared to what he’s capable of.”

The man’s bloodshot eyes snapped to mine, wide with panic. He saw it then. Whatever men see before they’re about to die. He began whimpering and begging, the noise grating on my bones and making everything inside me shift.

“I–I know a man. He can lend me the m-money. P-please, don’t kill me.”

“Name.”

“Eddie B-barden.”

McKenna stood and adjusted his cufflinks. “What a wonderful friend you are, passin’ your debts along like that.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, I’m goin’ to need somethin’ to show him how serious it is to be in debt to us.”

He turned his back on Declan and walked towards me. My wrists were freed, and a machete was placed in my hand.

“I want his head.”

McKenna had a kink for collecting heads.

“No! No, no, no, please!” Declan begged as my darkness tuned into the pathetic sound, fuelling the need for his blood.

A few minutes later, I threw the severed head at McKenna’s feet, heaving with rapid breaths as blood ran down my forearms in thick, warm ribbons.

“You did well. Get cleaned up.”

My shoulders dropped. The praise felt like a cage door, trapping the beast inside.

I moved down the warehouse hallway to the shower room, stripping off and watching the blood run off me onto the tiles and down the drain. Two soldiers who followed me everywhere hovered nearby, their guns in one hand and tasers in the other, just in case.

“Do you think he even feels?” one muttered behind me.

I braced my hand against the wall and let the water hammer down on me.