The Capo’s Daughter Needs No Permission Chapter 05
I never replied.
My mother put her phone away.
She probably thought I’d do what I always did—walk to the end of the block and come back.
She thought that blood ties and my father’s protection were enough to guarantee my eventual obedience.
She put the permission slips back in the box and went downstairs.
In the living room, my father and Marco were helping Ava choose a back-to-school gift.
Marco pointed to a website on his phone.
“This thin gold bracelet would look good on Ava. Have the store deliver it tomorrow, then go pick up that blueberry mousse she likes.”
My father nodded.
My mother took the phone and swiped back to the previous page.
Ava immediately waved her hands.
“Aunt Maria, one bracelet is enough. A necklace would be too much.”
“I’m not showing it to you,” my mother said quietly.
“I’m showing it to Romy.”
Ava flushed.
Marco frowned.
“Why the sudden urge to buy her a gift?”
My mother looked at him.
“Because the way you two treat those girls is completely out of line.”
“Ava is a protected orphan registered with the Family. We have a duty to care for her. But fulfilling that duty doesn’t mean you get to take things from Romy to do it.”
“Romy is your sister.”
Neither my father nor Marco said a word.
My mother looked down and continued scrolling through bracelets.
When she got to the sizing options, she froze.
She didn’t know my wrist size. She couldn’t remember if I preferred silver or gold.
She sent me a message.
*Romy, take a look at these styles.*
*Your brother says this is your back-to-school gift.*
I glanced at the message, switched my phone to airplane mode, and went back to memorizing my graduation speech.
The next day, Ms. Albright walked backstage carrying a name badge engraved with the school logo and my name.
“Ready?”
“The livestream is all set. As soon as the principal finishes his opening remarks, you’re on.”
“Just tell the underclassmen how you built your cybersecurity project. That project is what got you into Westbridge. They’ll want to hear about it.”
She adjusted the beading on my new dress.
When her fingers brushed against the bra strap underneath, she paused.
“Did I buy this too small for you last time?”
“It’s hooked this tight—doesn’t that hurt?”
She reached around and adjusted the back clasp until it sat comfortably.
The pressure that had been cinched around my chest for years suddenly eased.
It felt strange.
For the last few years, I’d been wearing Ava’s cast-off bras.
When they didn’t fit, I’d take a needle and thread and sew the excess fabric into clumsy tucks.
One time, the stitching came loose during gym class, and the bra slipped while we were running laps.
After that, I always sewed the seams extra tight.
Slowly, I’d started to think that discomfort was just a normal part of life.
But the Vitale family wasn’t poor.
I had used my permission slips to ask my mother for new underwear before.
But every time we went into a store, she would look at Ava first.
I would stand there, waiting, from the beginning of the month to the end.
It wasn’t until she happened to notice my old, crudely stitched underthings drying in a corner of the laundry room that she finally remembered I had ever asked for anything at all.
But it didn’t matter anymore.
From now on, I would never again stand at a door holding a stack of paper, waiting for someone else to grant me permission to live.
I took the microphone from the principal and walked onto the red-carpeted stage to a burst of applause.