The Mafia Kidnapped Me

(1) When It All Started.

There was something soothing about the view of the sea; maybe the way the tides come and go, or the way the waves laxly erodes the sands as it wriggles its way gently towards the shore, or perhaps the rhythmic pulse it exudes which is unmatched by any other part of nature.

Whatever characteristic of the sea it was, Pamela King felt soothed.

She was sitting still, her hands on her laps, looking through the window, lost in thought. She shut her eyes against the glaring hurt that welled up in her heart as if darkness would abate it. A tight and painful lump surged in her throat and she swallowed, trying to efface it. Without wanting to, tears started to seep down her face but she didn't sob. She reached for a box of tissues on a little table beside her and wiped her eyes. Her heart was heavy and sadness weighed her down.

She could hear approaching footsteps that were solid against the wooden stairwell just outside the door. She knew who it was so she didn't bother to turn around. All that filled her was prayers that the person coming would come bearing good news.

She returned her eyes to the sea that was buzzing with its dormant strength just as the hard mahogany door of her father's study creaked open and a blonde petite woman in her early fifties walked in. She was in her early fifties, but she looked ten years her age.

Pamela looked up reluctantly from the view of the sea at the woman that entered. It was her mother, Dorothea.

"Mother." Pamela said, almost a whisper. That word conveyed a lot of things which Dorothea understood.

She walked slowly towards Pamela. Her face was white, her skin very pale and bags were under her eyes for lack of sleep, all telltale signs that she was suffering just as much as Pamela was. Dorothea took her daughter's hands in hers and squeezed it affectionately.

"He's gone."

Those two words softly spoken had a bomb blast impact on her. Gone. Her love, her best friend, her supporter, her happiness, her gossip-buddy, her father, gone.

The tears couldn't come. It just couldn't. The news was not shocking, for he had been battling his life for a week since he was hit by a stray bullet. He was unfortunate to have been at the bank when trigger-happy masked men robbed - or so she was told.

She felt pain though. That kind of pain that renders one weak and speechless. The realization that she would never be able to see her dad smile or talk to her washed over her in alternating waves of more pain. The pain threatened to cripple her. She turned her face to the sea again, begging to be soothed.

"How did he die?" She asked quietly, her eyes still looking straight ahead. "Was it peaceful? Did he suffer a lot?" She turned her head to regard her mom. "Did he call for me?"

Her mom sniffled and wiped at her nose. "It was peaceful honey. He died a very peaceful death." Her face crumpled once more and tears started to seep down her face. "Oh, I'm going to miss him. I'm going to miss the love of my life."

"The love your life Dorothea? Why then did you divorce him?" Pamela said, indignation rising sky high in her chest.

"Don't start, Pamela."

"Don't start what?"

Pamela's mother stood and walked towards the sets of paintings hung on the wall ranging from The Starry Night painting, Las Meninas painting, the portrait of Innocent X and others. Her dad had been an art lover, and mostly had Diego Velázquez's paintings.

Her mother stood there and pretended to be studying them. "We've discussed that already."

"I just don't understand why you woke up one morning and demanded a divorce. I want to know why."