His Mafia Queen

A Fresh Start

RILEY

They have given me enough anti-anxiety medicine to numb the pain, but not enough to end my life. I'm sure this was Gabriel's doing, certain that he and Gio gave Mrs. Scalzi instructions on when to give me pills, and when to refuse my pleas for more.

I'm not even fully sure what day it is, or how long it's been since Gabriel walked out. It feels like an eternity, but without a cell phone or a calendar, it's anyone's guess.

Other than my crushing depression, everything is going to plan. Mrs. Scalzi is feeding — or trying to feed — me some of the most delicious Italian food ever. I resisted at first, but she won me over with some cannoli.

Now I'm eating everything in sight, hoping to fill the void inside my body with food. I'd love a drink, but they're keeping all booze from me. Probably due to the pills.

I have no access to the internet, to television, to radio. There's an old CD player in my room, with some discs from the 90s. I wonder vaguely if they're Gio's, but then I realize I don't care and resume staring out the window from the little bed.

Even though it's summer, I haven't seen the sun. Or at least it feels like that.

One morning, I pad downstairs in my fuzzy socks, the scratchy leggings, and the Red Sox shirt. I haven't taken the shirt off, mostly because I still think it smells faintly of Gabriel. It's as if he transferred his essence to me when we hugged for the final time.

Mrs. Scalzi is in a floral housedress and an apron. "Buongiorno," she says, beaming. "I made you the toast and Nutella you like, plus a nice latte."

"Thank you." I don't have a lot to say to Mrs. Scalzi. She's a nice lady and all, but honestly, I don't feel like uttering more than a few words at a time. It seems like way too much effort.

I'm halfway through my latte and considering a morning nap when a woman walks in carrying a shopping bag from an expensive department store. She's got short, dark hair in a pixie cut and is wearing a dark blue sheath dress and black heels, like she's going to work in an office. I figure she's about my age, but a lot more put together and organized.

Then again, I'm at rock bottom.

"Hi Mom." She kisses Mrs. Scalzi on the cheek. My heart tugs for my own mother.

Whose funeral is probably happening right about now...

"And you must be Riley Murphy," the woman says, pulling out a chair from the kitchen table. "I'm Cinzia Scalzi. Gio's sister."

"Hi," I say shyly, acutely aware that I haven't bathed or brushed my hair in maybe days.

"We need to have a long discussion. I'm here to help you." She points to the bag, which she's set on the floor near my chair. "You'll find clothes and shoes in there. Why don't you go shower and change, then we'll chat over coffee at my favorite place down the street."

"What's-a wrong with my coffee?" Mrs. Scalzi says, gesturing. She's grinning, and I can't help but smile, too.

"Your coffee is delicious," I say, taking another quick sip.

"We need to chat in private," Cinzia says. "And we don't have a lot of time. Go."

I'm not sure how I feel about being bossed around by a woman my age, but I'm grateful for some direction so I follower her orders.

# # #

The bell chimes as Cinzia pushes the coffee shop door open. She chose well — this place is charming. Like everything else in this neighborhood, it's in a historical Back Bay building, genteel and hushed.