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I hated her.
    Although there had been some success with my therapy, there were certain things that reminded me of her. Small, stupid little things like the smell of a particular perfume, the brand of a fashion designer, or even the shoes and handbags she had bought for me on one of her extravagant trips to Europe. Unfortunately, she never bought me things when she needed to, like my birthday. No, she was a selfish bitch and only gifted me things when she wanted information about my father, his men or his enemies. But I never fell for her games. I knew her too well, knew she was a master manipulator.
    You didn’t grow up in a mafia crime family without being able to read people. Sierra helped me get most of my mother's ‘gifts’ out of my room, but vanity kept me from parting with some of my possessions. I felt no guilt whatsoever when I wore a pair of shoes, or an outfit my mother had given me. But that was because I was out and about and socialising with people during the day. It was times like these, alone with time to think, I would cast my mind back to the times my mother hadn’t been there for me. Whenever I had a fragment of guilt enter my head, I reminded myself of the many times she neglected and ignored me. The worst was the time when I was ten years old and I overheard her yelling and screaming at my father, saying she should never have gone through with her pregnancy and had an abortion.
    I often wondered if I was even a true Morassi. I didn't dare question it or bring it up. I loved my father so much. Without him, I'd be lost. He was my world and the only real parent I'd ever known. My mother was always absent in my life and when she was present, she was non-existent anyway. Tears welled in my eyes. I hated crying over her. I'd shed enough tears and was sick of feeling this guilt. I shouldn't. I wouldn’t. My mother was dead and I killed her. I needed to move on and focus on what lay ahead for me.
    “Lorena, are you awake?” Sierra’s knock on my door startled me and snapped me out of my morose thoughts. “ Nonna Angela needs help with those Italian doughnuts she makes. I can’t help her just yet. I need to get Matias ready and Sebastiano is in the gym with some of the guys. You know what he’s like with his workouts,” Sierra said.
    “I’m awake. I’ll be down there soon to help. I promise,” I called out to her. “And they are called zeppole not doughnuts.” Sierra always knew how to put a smile on my face.
    Riccardo used to make me smile too. He was always so serious but every now and then he would blurt out something hilarious and everyone would be in fits of laughter. Since returning from boarding school, several years ago, I took every opportunity to flirt with him, but he totally ignored me. I never gave up.
    My father threw a huge party for me at the age of twenty-one and I thought coming of age he would finally see me as a woman and he would surely give in to my seductive ways. He didn’t. Riccardo never stepped out of line. To him, the familgia always came first. Apart from comforting me when my mother died. It was the only time he held me in his arms, the only time I had felt safe and happy in a long time. It was Riccardo’s arms I wanted wrapped around me forever. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see that happening. His loyalty and honour to my father was a priority. He would never betray The Don.
    I swiped at the tears trickling down my cheeks and headed towards the bathroom, ready to start my new day. I needed to get myself organised for the birthday. I had so many things to do and prepare for. Keeping busy allowed me to keep my mind off my mother, and cooking zeppole with Nonna Angela would definitely keep my mind off things. It was a new day and I needed to leave my bad thoughts behind me, so they wouldn’t interfere with what I really wanted in my life.
    And the one thing I knew I wanted was Riccardo. That would never change. No matter how negative my thoughts were, if I focused on