MAFIA PROPERTY

𝐏𝐎𝐕 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐀

Some women are born to be loved.

Others, to be used.

And some… to be traded.

I was traded.

No one asked if I agreed. No one asked if I was afraid. Or if I wanted it. Or if I was ready.

Important decisions are never explained to women like me. They happen. Delivered in short sentences, cold looks, and silences that leave no room for questions.

That’s how I learned my future didn’t belong to me.

From a very young age, I understood that there were invisible rules inside my home. They were never written down, but they were followed with absolute discipline. My father spoke little, yet his presence filled every space. My mother spoke even less; she learned early on that survival was the same as obedience.

I watched them both for years.

I watched fear live in her gestures.

I watched control live in his posture.

By watching, I understood something simple and cruel: no one there was free—some just wore heavier chains than others.

Some people commanded.

Others obeyed.

And those who served neither purpose… were used as currency.

I learned that my world ran on agreements that were never broken. That promise didn’t need to be spoken aloud to be enforced. And that everything—absolutely everything—had a price.

Including people.

I learned this too early ever to forget. I learned it by noticing how conversations shifted when certain names were mentioned. How decisions were treated as routine, even when they involved entire lives. Nothing ever seemed heavy to those who decided. The weight always belonged to those who had to comply.

In my house, silence was never empty. It carried unspoken orders, implied threats, and promises made far from the wrong ears. I learned that hearing too much was dangerous—but hearing too little was worse. Balance meant pretending indifference while absorbing everything.

The mafia was never distant from me. It was never a rumor or a story whispered in the dark. It was always there, breathing inside the house, sitting at the table, walking the halls. A constant, absolute presence.

It lived in the exchanged glances between men who never had to explain themselves. The doors closed without warning. In the scent of gunpowder that sometimes seemed to cling to the air—even when nothing had happened.

Men came and went without asking permission. They didn’t need to. That house belonged to them too. They spoke little and observed a lot. Every word was calculated, every gesture deliberate.

I grew up understanding that this world wasn’t sustained by violence alone. Violence was only the final step. Before it came fear. Tradition. Obedience passed down through generations like an unavoidable inheritance.

That was how everything worked. No one needed to shout. No one needed to explain. It was enough to remember who was in charge.

And at the center of it all, there were men.

They decided.

They commanded.

Likewise, they owned.

Women merely existed within the permitted limits.

We weren’t raised to lead or to question. We were molded to serve very specific purposes: preserve the family’s image, bear children, seal alliances, uphold male pride, and swallow humiliation in silence.

From early on, we learned that a woman’s opinion was tolerated only when convenient. That having a will of our own was seen as a flaw. That obedience was praised as virtue.

Misogyny was never debated because it was never considered a problem. It was the rule. The structure.

The older woman already knew this. They walked with lowered shoulders, measured voices, and ever-watchful eyes. They knew exactly when to speak—and, more importantly, when to stay silent. Not only that, but they survived by slowly disappearing.

The younger ones learned early. They learned by example. They learned through implied threats. Not only that, but they learned because there was no alternative.

I saw girls promised while still teenagers. I saw marriages treated like transactions.

Likewise, I saw female bodies assessed like merchandise: beauty, youth, and fertility—all calculated as part of a larger deal.

Love never entered the equation.

Neither did Choice.

My mother was the truest reflection of that system. She wasn’t weak. She was broken slowly. Day after day. Year after year. Every time she swallowed her fear. Every time she accepted an order. Every time she pretended not to hear, not to see, not to feel.

She learned to survive by shrinking. And she tried to teach me the same—not out of cruelty, but desperation. Because in that world, protecting a daughter meant teaching her not to draw attention.

She never cried out loud. She cried inwardly. And I learned to recognize that silent crying—that deep exhaustion that never finds rest.

I grew up knowing that a woman’s fate in that world was never written by her. It was decided at tables we were never invited to sit at.

Tables surrounded by men who spoke of honor while negotiating lives.

As I grew older, my body began to be watched differently. Not with open desire—but with assessment. As if I were being prepared for something that hadn’t yet been spoken aloud.

My name started to circulate in conversations that didn’t include me. My future was discussed without my knowledge. My existence acquired a value that had nothing to do with who I was.

I stopped being just a daughter.

I became a possibility.

And in that world, possibilities don’t belong to themselves.

The mafia works this way: everything must serve something greater. No one is an individual. Everyone is a piece. And some pieces are disposable.

Women have always been the easiest to move.

Because we were taught not to resist. Because we were trained to accept. Because we learned early that fighting only made things worse.

I felt it in my body.

A constant tension, as if something were about to happen. As if my life were being slowly pushed toward a point of no return.

Nothing was announced.

Nothing needed to be.

Normalcy was just a carefully maintained illusion, meant to keep me docile. Ignorant. Ready to accept it when the time comes.

And I knew it would come.

Because in that world, nothing remains undefined for long. Everything is planned. Everything is collected. Furthermore, everything is fulfilled.

Including agreements that involve people.

Including women.

Including me.

And when they finally said my fate was decided, no one asked if I was ready.

After all, merchandise doesn’t need to be ready.

It only needs to be delivered.