My voice came out low. Stripped. The kind of quiet that comes after something inside you has cracked open and what's pouring out isn't grief anymore.
Luna glanced at me. Her tone was indifferent, the way someone discusses the weather, the way someone mentions a stain on a tablecloth.
"Why the fuss? You should be glad I didn't have my son take that brat's life."
She didn't finish the sentence.
I slapped her hard across the face.
That slap carried all of my rage, every ounce of strength I had. It carried the blood in my daughter's shoe and the missing toe and the teacher's smile and the parents' laughter and the paintings torn to shreds and the phone smashed on the pavement and every single day I had lived quietly, humbly, swallowing my name and my rank and my birthright because I believed that peace was worth more than power.
It sent Luna stumbling backward. Her heel caught on the stone. She staggered, her hand flying to her cheek, and for one perfect, crystalline moment, the arrogance shattered and what was underneath was just a woman who had never been hit by someone who meant it.
I moved to hit her again.
A hand seized my hair from behind. Fingers twisted into the roots and yanked, snapping my head back. Another parent. Then another. They came at me from every side, punching and kicking, a mob that moved with the frenzied confidence of people who believed they were untouchable because they stood behind the right name.
"You filthy wench! How dare you lay a hand on Mrs. Ferraro? Are you tired of living?!"
A kick to my ribs. I curled around the pain.
"Yeah, your brat isn't even dead yet. Why rush to join her?"
A fist against my shoulder. Someone's shoe against my spine.
"Your kid's lucky Massimo taught her a lesson. With trash like you for a mom, she deserves whatever she gets, even if it's death!"
Even the teacher. Full of indignation, full of righteous fury, as if I had committed the unforgivable sin of disrupting her carefully arranged theater. She kicked me. A grown woman, an educator, driving her foot into my side while parents held me down.
"Stop hitting my mom!"
Emilia's voice. Small and broken and braver than any of them.
She tried to intervene. My five-year-old daughter, with her bloody foot and her missing toe, tried to put herself between me and the mob.
A chubby boy kicked her to the ground.
Massimo Ferraro.
The teacher patted his head. She smiled at him the way you smile at a dog that has performed a trick correctly.
"Massimo, you've always known how to punish wrongdoers. You're such a good kid. Tomorrow, I'll make sure to praise you in front of the whole academy and give you an award."
The boy looked to his mother. That quick, darting glance seeking approval. Luna gave the faintest nod, and his shoulders settled with satisfaction, the way they always did. He had never been the author of his own violence. He was a weapon someone else aimed.
Massimo squinted with a smug grin. "Hmph, it's what I'm supposed to do. I'll beat that brat every time I see her."
I was lying on the ground.
The stone was cold beneath my cheek. I could taste blood where I had bitten the inside of my mouth. My ribs screamed. My scalp burned where they had torn my hair. And somewhere to my left, my daughter lay on the pavement, silent, her fingers reaching for the hem of my sleeve even from the ground, because she was still trying to hold on.
I was trembling with rage as I gritted my teeth.
"You'll regret this."
The words came out quiet. Not a shout. Not a scream. Quiet, the way a door closes before the lock turns.
They burst into laughter as if I had told the funniest joke in the world.
"Did I hear that right? A lowly mistress has the nerve to make threats?"
"Hilarious! This wench actually thinks she's someone important. Mrs. Ferraro is the Don's wife. Squashing her is as easy as crushing an ant!"
"This worthless tramp can't do anything, so she's just throwing a tantrum. Hahaha!"
"What a disgrace. If I were her, I'd have already offed myself."
The parents held me down. They mocked me. They spat their contempt like it was currency and they were rich with it. And the bystanders were no better. They spat at me. Actual spit, landing on my clothes, my arms, my face. They hurled insults with the casual ease of people who had never once considered that the woman on the ground beneath them might be someone they should fear.
