5. Safety In Silence #3
I allowed my mind to drift to another world, one that was potentially even darker than the one I was living in.
The story was about a fourteen-year-old serial killer who was already shoving his arm down men’s throats to cut them open from the inside just to see how their organs looked.
It definitely wasn’t an easy read, but I wasn’t a squeamish person.
I’d witnessed my fair share of violence and torture growing up in a mafia family.
When I was fourteen and nearly abducted by the Americans, a soldier broke my arm as I tried to fight him off.
Santino killed him by smashing his skull into the dirt with a broken headstone.
That was the first time I saw my brother kill someone and watched a man die at my feet.
After the initial shock wore off, I remember thinking, look at all that blood.
It was mesmerising. Beautiful. And that it was spilled out of love and protection made it even more poetic.
After that, I helped my brother kill a few men.
I wasn’t the one who actually ended their lives; that was always Santino’s role, but I played my part.
Usually, I lured them in with my shy disposition and demure manner, giving them hope I might be the angel who would save them from my satanic brother and get them out of there alive.
Then their faces would drop when I’d hand Santino the tools I wanted him to try next.
Was it worse to be the bystander, enjoying their suffering, or more of a sin to be the one doing the act? I was never sure.
But I knew one thing.
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.