Love & Vengeance

Vittoria's POV

I have never believed in forgiveness.

Not for the Lombardi's. Not after they destroyed my family.

The Lombardi's killed my father.

That was the thought I woke up to every morning. The thought that tightened my chest and stayed there, squeezing tighter every hour.

I looked outside the kitchen window, watching the birds land softly on the skeletal branches of the Maple tree.

It had been six months since my father's body was pulled out of the Hudson River, a year since he went missing.

A gust of wind blew, scattering the birds from the tree. They flew away, their coloured wings flapping frantically against the gray sky.

It was a beautiful sight, but I couldn't bring myself to smile.

Vittoria, you're doing it again,” Mama said from behind, interrupting my thoughts.

“Doing what?” I asked, turning to face her.

“Brooding.” she said, placing her hands on her hips.

“I'm not brooding.” I said, my voice coming out sharper than I intended.

She sighed, and moved towards the dining table. In her hand was a framed photograph of my father.

She sat down, pulled out her handkerchief and started wiping the glass with a soft smile on her face.

It was a ritual for her, her way of coping I think. It was weird but at least it was better than having anger pent up in your chest so much it might just explode.

Like me.

“Why do you keep doing that?” I asked.

“Because it's all I have left of him,” she answered, still wiping the frame.

“But it's just a photo,” I said bitterly.

Mama's hand stiffened and she looked up at me. “It's not just a photo, Vittoria. It's a memory.”

I shook my head at her, crossing my arms on my chest. “If you say so. But wiping his photo won't make the people who killed him suffer.”

She carefully placed the photo back on the table. “Revenge won't bring him back Vittoria.” She replied gently, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, but it's better than what you're doing.” I snapped.

She turned to look at me in shock, she opened her mouth for a moment as if she wanted to say something but closed it.

“Papà is dead. His name has been dragged through the mud and everyone keeps saying he deserves it for being in the Mafia.”

“He wasn't in the Mafia, Cara, he just…” she started but I didn't let her finish.

“He just what mà, he was seen multiple times with them.”

“Stop, Vittoria…”

“We can't keep allowing the Lombardi Mafia to do what they like and go scot-free, that is why they have so much power. If…”

“Vittoria!” mama snapped, standing up and slamming her hand on the table. “Stop it.”

I stood frozen as she looked at me, tears gathering in her eyes. Neither of us spoke as we waited for the other.

I thought she would yell further but she sat back down. “I just don't want you to keep carrying the anger within you. Let it go.”

I didn't respond and she sighed deeply, taking the frame with her as she left the kitchen.

I wasn't going to let it go. I was going to make them pay. Especially their boss, Ricardo Lombardi.

I pulled out my phone from my pocket and scrolled through my gallery.

Assistant to Mr Valerio palazzo needed

Was written on a poster I had seen near a bar that some Lombardi’s hung out in.

“Should have a law degree or at least a diploma,” I read out and laughed.

Why would someone with a law degree want to be an assistant to a Consigliere?

This was my chance. I would use it to get close to the Lombardi's and destroy them.

The problem was one, I didn't have a law degree or diploma. Two, if I did,it would have my real name on it.

I wasn't going to infiltrate them with my real name. They would catch on immediately.

I would have to get a fake, the kind of fake that would fool even the meticulous Mr palazzo.

I zoomed in on the picture of the poster, the interview was the next day. I had to make my preparations quickly.

The smell of incense and street food filled me as I entered China town. I entered a small shop hidden between two noodle shops.

A middle aged man sat behind a computer tapping rapidly on the keyboard, he didn't even bother to raise his head up as I came in.

“What do you want?” he muttered.

“I'm looking for Mr Huan.” I said, looking around the shop.

They were two other men, not men actually, teenage boys, sitting at one corner.

They seemed to be busy with something, though I couldn't see because they hid it the moment I entered and sat up, watching me.

The man behind the computer had finally raised his head to look at me.

“What for?” He asked, tilting his head as he watched me.

“I need a passport,” I said, my voice steady.

He smiled, revealing a gold tooth. “You're at the right place.”

“What's the name?” One of the boys asked.

I hesitated, not understanding the question. “My name or…”

“The name for the passport dumbass,” the other boy explained.

My mind raced as I thought of a name. I wondered if I should change just my name and surname or just surname?

“It is advised that you only change your surname, you may forget to answer a different first name,” Mr Huan chipped in, as if he knew what I was thinking.

“Vittoria Balotelli,” I said finally, the words feeling foreign as they rolled off my tongue.

One of the boys whistled. “Mafia,” said the other one.

“Italian huh,” Mr Huan muttered and

chucked softly.

“Yes,” I answered sharply. “I'll also need a fake birth certificate, highschool and law diploma certificate.”

“Okay,” he replied. “Cool.”

“I'll need it today,” I said and he nodded, “Come by in the evening and get it.”

I left the shop and walked out into the street, the name Victoria Balotelli still ringing in my head.

Next morning

The time on the poster for the interview was 9am but by 7:30am I had already dressed up to leave the house.

“Cara, why don't you eat first before leaving,” my Mamà said, but I shook my head. I wasn't hungry.

“I'll eat when I come back mà,” I replied, kissing her cheeks before I stepped out.

The line moved slower than I had expected. I shifted on my heels, looking at the clock on the wall. It was already noon.

Each tick felt like a countdown to my doom. What if I got caught?

My palms were sweaty from the anxiety but I kept my face neutral, I couldn't afford to look suspicious.

When my turn finally came, the receptionist guided me forward. I rubbed my hands across the blazer, straightening it and clutched my file tightly in my arms as I walked into the office.

The man behind the desk was younger than I expected. He looked to be in his 50s with streaks of grey hair on his head.

His sharp eyes watched me as I walked into the office, making me shiver.

He gestured to the chair opposite him for me to sit and I did. He leaned back on his chair and just stared at me.

I was unsure of whether to speak first so I just stared back at him, looking him in the eye.

He finally chuckled, “you seem like someone I knew,”

I forced myself to smile politely, “ I get that sometimes.”

“What is your name?”

“Vittoria Balotelli,” I said quickly.

The moment I said my name his expression changed, his body tensed up and he opened his mouth to speak but closed it back.

“Vittoria….” he repeated softly, almost to himself. Then he stretched his hands forward and I handed my file to him.

He flipped through my file, nodding his head as he went. I clenched my fingers together, praying he wouldn't find out.

And then all of a sudden he raised his head to look at me.

“Do you know a man called Francesco Russo?”