Taken

Prologue

chiara

T he air bites at my cheeks, sharp and cold, as I stare ahead.

I can’t believe it.

Mr. Buttons is pressed tightly to my chest. His fur doesn’t feel soft like it usually does—it’s wet now, damp with tears that won’t stop rolling down my face.

The sky thunders above, like it can feel all of our emotions too, ready to pour down on us with rain on the day of my Mama’s funeral.

Everything feels wrong.

All around me, people are dressed in black, their faces pale and grim. Barely anybody speaks. The women cry softly, their gloved hands holding tissues to their wet eyes that are now big and shiny as tears fall from them.

The men don’t cry.

They never do, not like how the women always cry.

Instead, they stand around us, protecting us, their expressions stony and unreadable. Their bodies are tense as they stand shoulder-to-shoulder, and their mouths set in hard lines.

Made men.

Soldiers.

Protectors.

When Papa walked by them earlier, they nodded at him in respect, but nobody spoke.

For some reason, that made the knot in my stomach tighten a little bit more.

I look away from the people to glance over at Papa, watching him as he stands at the edge of the grave.

Papa is trembling.

Dario, my older brother, stands behind me.

His grip is tight on my shoulder, and it’s hurting me a little, but I don’t tell him to stop.

He looks over my head at the wooden box—the one which Mama is in—as he clears his throat behind me.

It’s obvious that he’s trying not to cry, but I wish he would.

He hasn’t said anything ever since we got here.

The priest begins to speak as he blesses Mama’s soul. I really can’t listen to everything that he says, because the only thing I can hear are the sniffles of the crying women.

Suddenly, Papa steps forward, his fists clenched at his sides.

“No!” Papa booms, marching even closer to the priest. “This is not right!”

All around us, the people freeze.

Even the priest stops speaking, his mouth half-open as he stares at Papa with wide, terrified eyes.

“She was mine!” Papa roars as he storms forward, his chest heaving. “Serena was mine, and now she is gone! You all really expect me to stand here? To watch my wife be buried into the ground?!”

Two men—two soldiers whose names I can’t remember—move closer to Papa, their faces tight.

“Francesco.” One says, his voice steady but firm. “Now is not the time.”

The other man turns to look over at me, and as he meets my eyes, I look away from him.

My entire body trembles.

Papa turns on the two men, his face now twisted with rage.

“When is the time? When do we find the bastard who did this? When will we bring justice to my wife? My wife who was murdered? My wife whose dead body is being buried into the ground as we speak?!”

I shrink back into Dario, clutching onto Mr. Buttons even tighter.

My brother pulls me closer to him, one hand sliding protectively around my body as though he’s trying to shield me.

My throat tightens.

When one of the other underbosses steps forward—Umberto, I think—he raises both hands in a calming gesture.

“We will find the motherfucker who slaughtered Serena. I swear it, Francesco. But you need to—”

Papa only growls.

“I dare you to tell me to calm down. I dare you, Umberto!”

For a moment, it looks like he’s going to hit Umberto.

I whimper into Mr. Button’s damp fur.

One by one, other men step forward, not hesitating to grab Papa as they pull him back before anything can happen. I watch Papa struggle against the hold of all the men, his voice rising as he spits out at them, his words a mix of Italian and English now, his voice sounding so sharp and angry.

I don’t understand everything he’s saying, but I think Dario does from the way he chokes up behind me, his arm shaking around my body.

The men wrestle Papa backward, pulling him away from the grave, muttering reassurances that I don’t think they even believe themselves.

Papa finally stops fighting.

His shoulders slump, and his head drops forward, his breathing ragged.

I don’t want to look at Papa like this, but I can’t stop myself. He’s on his knees now, his hands clenched into fists on the ground. His head is bowed, and his shoulders are shaking now. He looks small, like the weight of everything is crushing him completely.

I have never seen Papa like this.

He has always been so big, so strong. He has always been the one who keeps calm, the one who fixes everything for everybody else.

I don’t like seeing Papa like this.

Again, Dario clears his throat behind me.

I glance up at him, but he won’t look at me. His eyes are fixed on the grave, his face pale. His chest shakes against my back, and his eyes are shiny with tears.

Like Papa, I’ve never seen Dario like this before.

He has always been my big brother, seven years older than me so he’s always been the stronger one out of the two of us; the one who always tells me that everything will be okay. But now, he’s holding me so tightly that I can barely breathe, and I don’t even know what to do.

Now, I hear the soft creak of the coffin being lowered into the ground.

I turn around, watching, and my stomach twists at the sight of it happening right in front of me.

“No.”

I whisper, the word barely audible.

My brother hears me though.

Dario holds me tighter, his voice cracking as he speaks softly to me.

“It’s okay, Chiara. I’m here, and I’ve got you.”

I shake my head, feeling my heart beginning to ache in my chest.

It’s not okay.

Nothing is okay.

Glancing over at Papa, I see how his hands are gripping the edge of the grave, his knuckles now white, like he wants to reach in, to pull the coffin back up, and Mama too. His face is crumpled, his cheeks wet with tears, as his lips move.

His voice cuts through the air like a knife.

“She did not deserve this!” Papa roars, his fists pounding down on the ground. “My wife did not—my Serena did not—”

A wrenching sob rips out from his throat, and a similar one rips out from mine.

I don’t like seeing Papa like this.

The men standing closest to Papa look over at each other, their jaws tight, and their hands fidgeting at their sides.

They don’t move.

They don’t offer to help.

Nobody knows what to do.

Papa is the underboss, and now, he’s breaking apart.

I want to run to Papa, I want to grab his hand as I tell him to stop crying, so he can be my Papa again.

But my feet don’t move.

I can’t move them even when I try.

Behind me, Dario’s chest heaves as he cries silently.

When I try to turn around to look over at my brother, he doesn’t let me.

“Look away, sorellina.” He says as the box disappears into the ground. Papa cries out, his head falling forward as he kneels onto the ground, begging Mama to come back to him. “Please, don’t look.”

The priest murmurs quietly, uttering words which only make Papa hurt even more.

Everybody watches us.

I hate it. I hate all of it.

Papa grabs soil in his bare palms, throwing it down.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

I don’t know what’s louder; the sound of the soil hitting the coffin carrying my Mama’s dead body, or my heart beating hard in my chest.

I squeeze Mr. Buttons so hard that I think I might tear him apart.

My tears fall faster now, hot against my cheeks, my chest aching like something sharp has been pushed inside.

And after a while, people begin to leave.

They murmur their condolences to Papa, and to us too, before they all leave the site.

Soon, it’s only us left behind.

Me, Dario, and Papa.

Slowly, Papa stands up, his movements stiff and jerky. His eyes are bloodshot and hollow, and his face is pale. As Papa walks over towards us both, his steps become heavy and uneven.

And when he reaches us, he kneels down onto the ground again, pulling us both into his arms.

“I love you.” Papa says, his voice rough and low. “I will always love you. I will always protect you.” Dario begins sobbing softly, his body shaking against mine, and Papa’s. “You are my heart, both of you, and I will give you both the best life from now on. I swear it.”

His arms are strong around us.

I don’t say anything to Papa—I can’t say anything to him—so I just cling onto Mr. Buttons with my face pressed into Papa’s dirty shirt. Even Dario doesn’t speak, he only holds onto me and Papa tightly.

Everything is quiet now.

All I can think of is Mama.

I think of her smiles, and how pretty she looked when she laughed. I think of the way she would tuck me in bed at night, and kiss my forehead, telling me how much she loved me.

And then I think about what I overheard Papa saying to Dario one day, and why it always made me think that I would be safe forever.

Women and children are to be unharmed.

It rings loudly in my head as I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling Papa’s shirt becoming wet with all my tears now.

Who would be so cruel?

Who would break the rules?

My heart aches.

Why would they ever hurt my Mama?

I sob louder with those questions in mind, barely able to open my eyes now that I’m safe in Papa’s arms.

Although it’s been weeks since we buried Mama, our house feels just as heavy as the day we left for the funeral.

Papa’s footsteps thunder down the hall, loud and sharp, almost shaking the walls.

He’s been like this every single day, stomping through our house as he yells at people on the phone, his voice deep and booming.

I don’t really understand the words he says—sometimes they are Italian, and other times they are English—but I do understand that talking to others only makes him angrier.

Pressing my back against my bedroom door, I clutch Mr. Buttons tight to my chest.

His fur still smells like Mama.

I asked her to spray my teddy with her favourite perfume, and she did, so I like having him close to me.

I still haven’t let anybody wash him.

Downstairs, I hear a crash—maybe a glass or a plate being thrown to the floor.

And when I hear Papa’s angry voice, I wince.

Dario talks to Papa, his voice calm, but firm.