THE VIKING MAFIA (…And Mary, the Mother of God)
I gasped, goosebumps prickling my skin at the sight of Dante’s icy stare.
He stood unmoving, eyes holding a torrent of emotions, his gaze piercing through me, a cigarette perched between his lips. I clutched my chest instinctively, words trapped within trembling lips, unable to form a coherent plea. Dante remained frozen, a statue carved from stone, my heart desperate to beg, yet my voice betrayed me, lost amidst the tremors of fear.
“Have your breakfast in bed or at the dining table, Mary, the Mother of God,” Dante exhaled smoke, dropping a name that startled me. The use of that name was known only to the sisters at the convent; not even my mother addressed me as such.
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