My Tragic Mafia Life | ✔️

29

Josephine could remember the same song over the wind as if it hadn't been years since she'd been once a part of the devil's lullaby. She had grown antsy and uncertain of her decision, passing over the silver gate hedge and drawing herself towards the wicked that she had planned for. A part of her felt unsure.

    With that, she burned away any feeling of dread, like the emotions filled with hopes and dreams. Those had been feeble, stupid. Naive. Much like her worry.

    She approached the opening to hell with a much-reserved figure. At the image of the demons lying limp, then awake at seeing Josephine with a rouge, haughty smile, her teeth turned sharp.

They were enjoying themselves over bountifuls of cream delicacies with rich, deep wine. It was so dark Josephine could have mistaken it for blood. The vixens encircled her, like hawks squirming their prey and gingerly snickered around the sense of her presence.

But not too far, not when the devil was there and watching.

    The devil wore gossamer, emerald shoes. Plump heels, horribly polished, so much that it burned her eyes to keep staring. Josephine had to stress her pride to keep her gaze on the vile in front of her. The devil herself. It rose like a dainty feather, eyes tilted upwards with surprise, but no malice. The devil smiled like normal, teeth all pointed like knives.

    "Oh, darling," Mother said to Josephine with the normal false consideration of hers. She bit her lip, a sign of amusement, before a rattling breath of laughter rose out of her. So of the other ladies joining her today.

    Josephine could tell it wasn't the wine. Not when her mother's glass was a stroke too high in comparison to her companions, beady rims empty. They must have been enjoying themselves in the humid weather, drinking deliriously near the poolside adorning themselves in high fashion swimsuits of opal, marmalade, and quartz. Mother's own choice made Josephine's brow furrow. 

    If Josephine was rot, then her mother was the plaque underneath. The cause of necrosis. "I need to speak with you." She said to her mother in particular. No smiles to gift.

    The ladies hadn't heard, fumbling themselves already into another conversation. Mother was distracted, her dubious shoulders covered by the thin chemise matching her suit, lavender blue.

The servants scattered around the women, most likely wives of her father's associates, chocolate oranges and cherries and watermelon  slices carried on long silver trays to eat. And from behind,  a trio of musicians playing soft guitars and one large, black piano.

    Perhaps she was losing face, and value. Or perhaps they hadn't heard. She said, "It's extremely important." Hard enough that Mother could hear her discontent. She wouldn't scold her for it, not in front of her toys.

    The ladies talked. Chattered, some hollering so loud that it made some servants pale despite the heat. They were entertained, not by Josephine's words but by her presence. She tried to ask for Mother again, but the plea was met with three or four people to stare at Josephine in such an amazed way. Talking of her height, her growth, how long it has been since she was just a babe barely able to walk when she'd join them on the patio playing in the water with a purple tin bucket and frilly wear.

Then Mother offered Josephine a glimpse. A smile. Then turned.

Mother was the head of it all, laughing—an absurd, charming laugh. Implying other things, much more than Josephine wanted her to say. And from what Josephine knew, Mother loved to talk. She enjoyed listening to her own voice, words tripping out right and left saying this and that as if it was witty. To others, she was vibrant. A breath of fresh air and excitement, but Josephine knew better.