I couldn't fathom how my delicate, pain-averse daughter had endured so much without saying a word until now. How long had she sat in that classroom with blood filling her shoe, afraid to cry, afraid to speak, afraid that making noise would bring more punishment? How long had she pressed her lips together and swallowed the screams while the boy who did this to her was praised and rewarded?
She was five. She was five years old, and she had learned omertà before she learned to read.
I looked up.
I glared furiously at Luna.
"Did your son do this too?"
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!"