Female II Papa Came Home

The day before their departure, Lorenzo kicked several massive Louis Vuitton trunks toward me.

"Isabella, pack for Sofia and the kids."

He sat on the Italian leather sofa, casually cleaning his gold-plated Colt 1911, acting as if I were a nanny hired by him.

"Do you not have hands?" I asked, my voice flat.

Lorenzo froze. He clearly hadn’t expected the doormat to speak.

"What is your problem? You always do the packing."

Seeing that I didn't even bother to lift my eyes from my book, he slammed the gun onto the table in a fit of rage. "Fine! I'll do it! God, I've spoiled you."

Muttering curses, he began organizing Sofia’s lingerie and dresses.

As he rummaged through a drawer looking for fake passports, a small silver ring rolled out and clattered onto the floor.

It was my wedding ring. The one he had stolen off a dead rival during a street brawl fifteen years ago because he couldn't afford to buy me one.

The silver was tarnished, the surface marred by scratches from years of hard living.

Lorenzo picked it up, but Sofia was faster. She snatched it from his hand.

"Wow, this style is so... vintage! So Old School!"

She slid it onto her ring finger and held it up to the light, admiring it. "Lorenzo, look. My fingers are so slender. Doesn't it look so much better on me than on Isabella?"

Lorenzo looked at her delicate hand, his eyes softening into a puddle of adoration. Then, remembering I was in the room, he shot me a guilty glance.

But seeing my expressionless face, he decided it didn't matter.

"If you like it, keep it. Wear it for fun."

He turned to me and shrugged. " Once I secure the cocaine route in Colombia, I'll buy you a new one—a real blood diamond smuggled from South Africa."

"No need," I said, letting out a short, cold laugh. "If she likes picking up other people's trash, let her wear it."

It was fitting, really. A cheap ring for a cheap woman.

I turned to leave the room, but a sudden, blinding pain shot through my left ribcage.

It was an old war wound from our days in the Brooklyn tenements. We had been ambushed by the Irish mob. I had taken a bullet meant for Lorenzo.

Every time it rained, the pain drilled into my bones.

My face went pale, cold sweat beading on my forehead. My knees buckled, and I instinctively reached out to grab Lorenzo's arm for support.

"Lorenzo... my wound..."

Lorenzo’s face twisted with genuine concern. He moved to catch me—he knew that bullet had nearly killed me.

But before his hand could touch my sleeve, Sofia let out a delicate cry and collapsed right into his chest.

"Oh! Lorenzo! My head... my heart hurts so much..."

Lorenzo panic shifted instantly. He wrapped his arms around her, his face contorted with worry.

"Sofia! What is it? Is it your blood sugar?"

He pivoted sharply to scoop her up, completely forgetting I was standing right next to him, barely holding on.

The force of his movement slammed into me. I was already weak from the pain; the shove sent me crashing to the floor.

Crack.

My injured rib smashed against the corner of the heavy mahogany table.

Agony exploded through my body. I curled into a ball on the floor, gasping for air, tasting iron in the back of my throat.

Lorenzo froze for a split second, looking down at me. He made a move as if to help, but Sofia’s breathing grew frantically shallow in his arms.

He gritted his teeth and turned away.

"Isabella, it's just your old chronic pain. Go back to your room and lie down. I have to get Sofia to the hospital. I'll come back for you later."

With that, he stormed out, shouting orders to his men.

"Prepare the car! Get the bulletproof Cadillac! Get Sofia to the doctor, now!"

A swarm of Soldatos in black suits surrounded them as they rushed out. The children followed, running past me, screaming "Auntie Sofia!" in panic.

The massive estate fell silent.

I was left alone, lying on the cold marble floor.

With trembling fingers, I pulled out my phone and dialed emergency services myself.