Bleeding Sunset

Epilogue

“My, if someone would have told all those years ago…maybe even a little less than a year ago that one of the most powerful women in the underworld would be a black-…African woman, I would have laughed,” the wretched voice of the very woman who had raised Agostino said. My fingers tightened around the expensive glass of 1945 Dalmore whisky. I had acquired a taste for scotch whisky- anything really that would make me feel like I was escaping from this new life that demanded so much out of me even though I wanted nothing to do with it. I didn’t drink too much though, Agostino wouldn’t allow it. In fact, this was my first drink in weeks, and he only allowed me to drink during special occasions. I wouldn’t dare go behind his back and drink, especially since he told me that I had to be sober as much as possible to take care of our infant son. But to be honest, I barely take care of him. Agostino hired 7 nannies who made sure that all of our son’s needs were tended to. I was only meant to coddle him whenever he seemed to need me. 

In the months that I was staying in Rome with my husband who recently became the Don of the Milano family mafia, and our new-born son- I began to learn a lot about Agostino and his life. I learned that his mother had been a whore that his father used to sleep with- a common Gypsy woman that everyone looked down upon. She only told his father about him after he was born, and his father didn’t have the nerve to kill his first and only son- so instead, he took him for himself. He brought Agostino to his older sister- a woman who couldn’t have her own children- to raise his son to be a man. 

In the little time that I have known her, I see why and how Agostino became the way that he was. She was a wretched woman, who I’m glad never had the pleasure of carrying life because she seemed too at ease with taking it. She despised me, maybe even more than I hated her, because to her I was a low life- way worse than the Gypsy whore who had given birth to Agostino. She never had to say anything because I could just sense it; I could just see it in her eyes when she looked at me. But she wouldn’t dare to utter a word or even give me a dirty look- not if she still wanted to see the light of day. Agostino ruled with an iron fist and he had spoken against his family and warned that whoever dared to comment on my skin colour, would pay the price with their family’s lives. There were a few who dared to go against him, and they paid a very heavy price judging by the skulls of their loved ones decorating the décor of our Italian manor. 

“Isabella,” I said with a sigh as I turned to face the woman, looking down at her. She was wheelchair bound because she didn’t have both of her legs since they had been cut at the knees. The reason for that was; she had crossed Agostino’s father back when Agostino was a little boy and the siblings had a disagreement, where she gauged his father’s eye, and the dad chopped off her leg. The other leg, she lost because of Agostino…a couple of months back when she said something about our son; Arturo. “I see you’re feeling better,” I commented, looking down at her and how she concealed the lack of legs with a midnight blue ball gown that was bunched and gathered all around the expensive electrical wheelchair. Her dark hair was pulled into a low messy bun and her makeup was done horribly- just the way that she liked. Her blush was too bright, the foundation was cracking, and the Botox that she did only seemed to age her even more. 

“Ah well, what can I say, I know my son can be a little sensitive at times,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her dark beady eyes that bored into mine brazenly. 

“I guess telling Agostino that his son had “ugly negro hair” might have touched a bit of a nerve,” I commented with a dry tone even though a chill did run down my spine at the memory of her loud and pained screams as Agostino sliced her leg off with rusted saw. She had cried and begged, screaming in absolute agony and as much as I hated her and absolutely despised her comment about my son’s hair- I had begged for her mercy, begging for him to not do more to her than he had already done.