The Devil In White
My mother’s smile glows softly in the reflection of the flames, then begins to fade as the heat reaches the glass.
I whisper, “I’m sorry,” and set the photo on the edge of the fireplace. The heat curls the corners almost immediately.
For a second, I almost pull it back. Almost.
Instead, I just watch it burn. The faces, the smiles, the fragments of a life I no longer fit into. The glass cracks, the silver frame blackens, and all that’s left is smoke and memory.
Luca once told me every Don wears a crown.
He was wrong.
The crown isn’t gold. It’s smoke, and it burns like hell.