My Unforgivable, My Unforgettable... (Mafia Romance, 18+)

Chapter Eight.

I walk into my room, shutting the doors, then locking them. I ran a hand through my hair, yearning to pull on the strands. How could a person be so cruel, so heartless to this point? Something did force him into becoming what he is right now. Something happened to him in his childhood. When I questioned him on the matter, he froze. It happened in the briefest of seconds, but the reaction was still there.

I ought to be frightened, to be scared beyond human understanding, but I'm not, and that's what I'm afraid of. I want to help him. Maybe its my professional side fighting to come into surface, but I want to help him. I want to break through to him. Man is not born evil, man adapts evil growing up. He wasn't born this way, he adapted this into his system.

I walk over to my bed, and sit, eyes staring into space. Air! I need some air. I walk over to the balcony doors, and slide them open. There are no stars, or clouds, because this is the underground, but there are street lights literally everywhere. Aside from that, fireflies tend to inhabit the walls of the underground, so they take the place of the stars.

Aside from that, the underground is not muddy, or dusty as one would expect. No! The roads constracted here, are well tarmacked, and smooth, no potholes whatsoever, and most buildings are geodesic domes, though not too large in size. Are there gardens? Yes.

There are numerous small-sized glass houses, that house all types of plants. The technology employed in the underground, has led to the creation of some solar equipment, that tap sunlight from the surface, and redirect the energy into the glass houses. Basically, all who inhabit the underground, are persons in the Italian mafia, led by Psycho.

I look up at the fireflies, they are so many tonight. Beautiful, enchanting, perfection itself. However, there are downsides to living here. For example, I never get to see the sun rise or set, never get to see the actual moon, never get to smell, see, or feel the rain against my skin, never get to interact with other people. But I guess I can't lament. Everything that has merits, also has demerits, and I've understood that all my life.

Having my father with me all my life, was a merit, having him hate me to the point of being willing to let me die, is the demerit. I can't say whether or not I hate him. I feel nothing towards his death, just a neverending emptiness. I can't cry for him, I can't miss him, I can't say that he was the best father to live with. I can't say anything.

I feel a liquid hit the backside of my palm, compelling me to look down. A tear. Am I crying? I wipe the streaming rivulets with the backside of my hand. Life can be so unfair at times. Too unfair. Oh well, that's life for you. I walk back into my room, sliding the doors shut, then walk over to my bed, and get under the covers. I can't change anything, so why overthink?

***********

"Kate don't worry yourself. I'll cook for him tonight."
"Oh, bàmbînó. I'm not sure about that. I'll handle the cooking, you go up to your room and rest."
"Lemme just help. Only for tonight, I promise?"
She sighs deeply, a look of pity on her face.
Why does she have that look on her face?

"Kate?"
"Fine àmórè. I'll leave then. Remember, dinner ought to be served between seven and eight, not earlier or later. Okay?"
"Kate, don't worry yourself too much. I've lived in this house for six weeks. I now how things work around here."
She nods, offers me a small smile, then hugs me good-bye, and exits the room.

What can I cook for him? What ought I cook for him? I settle on some boiled carrot rice, beef casserole, and blended grape and mango juice. I set to work, tying my messy hair into a ponytail, and putting on the apron. Growing up with my dad, perfection was mandatory, in every sphere of live, including in the kitchen. So, from that, I learnt how to cook even the most complicated of dishes.

I boil, chop, dice, cube, fry, grate, blend, the processes giving birth to a mix of aromas. I set the table, just as Psycho prefers, then serve the food into the glass pots. I take off the apron, and free my hair from its confines, before staring up at the wall clock. It exactly six fifty. Psycho ought to be arriving at any moment now.
Are you doing all this to please him Bellamy? Why did you insist on cooking his meal?

I sigh deeply at my own thoughts, taking a seat at my usual spot on the table. The doors slide open, and my ears pick the sound of heavy footsteps making their way into the house. A few minutes later, Psycho walks into the room. He looks fatigued to say the least, and his arms are shaky. Medication!

"I'll get them for you. Sit and wait for me Psycho," I explain, hopping off the seat, and making my way out of the room, before he can actually protest. Its not that I care for him, I'm just being humane. I walk up the steps, and into his room, grab his medicines, then make my way back to the dining room. I find him seated, eyes gazing at nothing in particular, and arms firmly clutching the edge of the table.

I pour him a glass of water, and help him drink his medicine down.
"Why Luna?"
"Why am I helping you? I am human. I get to live on this Earth only once, so why not lend a hand while I still can?" I answer, as I dish out the food to him.
His hands are no longer shaky, and he seems sober. Once I've served him, I sit and serve myself, eyeing his reaction from my peripheral vision.

His eyes shut then reopen, followed by a small nod, as he takes his second bite. He is pleased. I fight to keep myself from smiling.
And you are pleased that he's pleased Bellamy?
I shake my head a little, discarding the thoughts.
"Do you like the food?"
The question causes him abruptly stop eating, and he just sits there, staring at the food.

"You cooked this?"
"I...uh, yeah," I reply, holding my breathe.
Time tics by, when suddenly, he swipes his arms over the table, causing all the utensils to fall off. I jump in my seat, then stare at him in disbelief.

"You are not to cook for me ever again, you got that Bellamy Luna Frezia?"
"If I wanted you dead Psycho, you'd have been dead by now."
"I will never be able to trust you. The child of a snake, is neither a fucking bird, nor a fucking butterfly, but a snake. A poisonous rattle snake!" His voice booms, venom in each word, before he proceeds to storm out of the room.

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