THE MAFIA'S JEWEL

Elena’s POV.

                                     ❦ ─── ⇢ ⇢ ⇢ ─ ✈  ─ ⇢ ⇢ ⇢ ─── ❦

“Traveling to 'Valencia' is a bad idea, Elena!” My best friend Ingrid yells.

Something is wrong with me. And I have known this for a while although I tried to fight it at first but I have since learned that this is how I am, my nature.

I love being told what to do, being obedient. I love structure and like to follow laid down rules.  I love being rewarded and praised. I blush when I'm told I'm a good girl.

My father knew this. He knew I'm never disobedient. Knew I wouldn't dare go against his wishes.

But he never thought I’ll be doing what I’m about to do now.

I am about to disobey my father’s last instruction, and I keep having a strange forebodding that this disobedience might change the course of my entire life.

But I must overcome this stranger feeling. I have to do this.

It has taken me over a year of self-reassurance to just gather my courage. 

I watched fifty-two podcasts and forty-seven YouTube motivational videos just to bring myself to do what I'm about to do now and that is to travel home to Valencia, Spain, and meet my mother and half-sister.

I step out of my bathroom and lean against the door frame inhaling the faint citrus coming from the Meyer lemon tree, I planted at the corner of the mansion.

Ingrid is lying out on my bed staring at the ceiling.

“Why is it a bad idea to go back to Spain? Why can’t I travel back to where I was born? Why do you think it’s a bad idea to go see my mother?” I ask.

“Well, your dad didn't think Valencia was safe for you or he wouldn't have gone the extra mile to make sure you didn't go back,” she shoots back, her voice rising. “He put a clause in his will, Elena! He said you shouldn't even come to Valencia for his own burial. Your father did that… so what's your problem?” 

My father took me from my home in Valencia, Spain when I was ten and brought me to Pinecrest, US.

Since then I have lived in this mansion with servants and guards, each day yearning for my mother, who never called, never reached out to me and even when I called she hardly answered. Only my half-sister Beatriz talks to me sometimes but she too seems busy.

A few years ago, I heard my mother was coming to the US for a wedding. She was going to be in Chicago. Chicago is quite far from Pinecrest in Florida but I went anyway, just wanted to see my mother.

Ingrid and I drove for twenty-two hours. I was very tired but so happy. When we finally got there my mother didn't even pay us any attention. She told me she didn't come to the US to see me. I returned to Pinecrest in tears. Ingrid was very pissed she didn't understand why I still wanted my mother's attention. She felt I should have been angry, not sad.

I was too young to know the difference.

 And now I'm about to go back to her, months after my father passed on, my act of disobedience after my father wrote in his will that I shouldn't even go to Spain for his burial.

What if my mom, who has never reached out for 12 years, still doesn't want me?

I frown.

I still don't get it though. Why is everyone against me going to Valencia?

Even my father's sister, Aunt Lucinda, warned me not to go.

“Do you think putting that clause was a joke?” Ingrid blurts out. “I mean, knowing your dad and all… that must have been a big deal for him.”

I sigh in frustration. I can't believe I'm still having this conversation a few hours before my flight.

“Well, thank heavens the will only says to not go to Valencia for his burial and not that I should never go to Valencia again. I checked with my lawyer… I can go now that everything is over.”  I say, my voice comes out flat and shaky.

My heart is beating faster. I hate when I fight with Ingrid.

 I brush my fingers over the velvety leaves of my African violet plant, gathering my courage.

God, I’m going to miss my plants and Ingrid, even if she doesn't realise it.

Ingrid turns and rises up on her elbow.

“You'll be twenty-two next month and you want to spend it with your mom? A woman who has never visited you in almost twelve years and who makes it clear she doesn't want anything to do with you?” 

I exhale sharply.

“Well, my dad didn't give her much of a choice when he yanked me away from her and brought me here to the US.”

Ingrid is sitting up now. Staring at me like a disappointed parent.

“Ingrid, please can we not fight?” I ask, walking towards her. Ingrid being the weird human being, she proceeds to stare at me for what seems like an eternity. The silence and her gaze become excruciatingly uncomfortable so I look down at my fingers instead. 

Finally she sighs.

“I just want you to be safe Elena. Your dad left you everything. I don't think your mom is particularly okay with that.”

“I… I know, but we cannot entirely blame her. My dad was a great father. The best father anyone could ask for, but I guess he wasn’t the best husband.”

Ingrid rolls her eyes mockingly. “I have met your mom, Elena...and she is not a saint.”

My dad is gone now. The sadness never stops. The pain never goes away. I miss him. I miss him so much. It all just made me realise that I won't always have my parents forever so I'm better off bonding with them while I can.

Dad and Aunt Lucinda had been the only family I have had for a long time.

My dad would fly down from Spain at least thrice a month, only his ill health in the last few years changed that. All my life I have lived guarded, only after my father's death was I able to convince aunt Lucinda to take away the guards. The funny thing is, I still don't know why my father ever thought it was best for me to be hidden and guarded.

But I can't keep living like this.

I have a mom and a half-sister and I want to get to know them. I want to bond with them like a normal family. And this trip is where I'm going to do that.

Over the years Ingrid has come to understand my love for plants. They are my obsession. I have always been fascinated with living things incapable of pretense. They wilt when they are thirsty, they brown on the edges when the air is too dry and they reach for light whether they deserve it or not. Sometimes I wish I could be a plant. And demand what I want, reach for what I want, and never be afraid of other people's judgement but that has never been my capability. 

“Oh Ingrid.” I walk to her and hug her.

She wriggles to break free from my embrace.

“Well, since you are hell-bent on going to Spain, please get yourself an actual man, one that can talk and move not all this plant you are in love with,” she teases, pointing through the window to my variegated canna lily sitting just outside the greenhouse.

“You know… One of those rich sire or heir or whatever they call them in your circle… Maybe he’ll be into the dominant kinky stuff you like,” she adds. 

I roll my eyes. 

“Haha, very funny, as if it's that easy,” I shrug. “I'm not particularly Spanish wife material.” As long as I can remember I have always been plus-sized which is a fancy way of saying all my life I have always been displeased with the number on the scale.

Ingrid laughs.

“And what would that be?”

“You know, slim, sexy, chic.” 

She scoffs, getting off the bed. “Ain't you the most self-unaware person on earth.” 

Grabbing her hand. “Stay with me… please,”  I say, batting my lashes. 

“That doesn't work on me and you know it,” she says, trying to pull away, “I'm unfortunately not sexually deviant like you.”

“Come on, Ingrid... I’m not a sexual deviant. I have never even had sex, I just... you know… fantasise about being dominated and controlled, nothing wrong with that,” I correct, tugging harder and she falls back on the bed laughing.

“If you say so… get some rest before your flight.”

“I want to rest with you,” I tease, snuggling into her laps.

Ingrid looks at me for a moment, her hands running through my damp hair, her countenance changes abruptly as she goes completely still.

"Elena,” her voice is low as she straightens. I find myself springing up in confusion too.

“Elena, what about the man back home?” She holds my gaze and doesn't flinch as I search her expression, confused.

“What man?” I inquire.

She just stares at me.

“The Mafia Don, Elena… The one you told me your father betrothed you to at seventeen, ” An uneasy pulse of memory runs through me, but I ignore it.