Virtues (Marino's Hell #1)

CHAPTER II

BELLA

I am bone-tired. I had got little-to-no sleep last night, thanks to the ludicrously high heels that had tortured my legs. My calves and feet are aching, and every step is a struggle.

I had tried to barter the pumps with extra, unpaid hours, well aware that I won't be able to work with them, but the contractor had disagreed. He had ruled out all my pleas and arguments arrogantly. Hadn't he been paying me enough to cover my shifts for the next two days, I would have gone back to my late-night stint at the Subway. Howbeit, the money was good, and I desperately need it.

Agonizingly, I walk down the road, trying not to stress my legs too much. They are still sore, and I have work waiting for me at home.

I walk leisurely and once I reach my street, I take a look at the substandard locality where I live. Daily wagers and blue-collar employees predominantly occupy the poorly built houses. My house is the biggest in the neighbourhood, and I take pride in it. It is the place where I was brought up.

My head hangs in despair as I cover the residual distance to my place. I wasn't meant to live a life like this, but whatever I earn is never enough, thus, I have to keep killing myself till it becomes enough. 

I drag my legs forward, my mind gets occupied with random thoughts of past and future and it takes me a few minutes to notice the black cars parked outside my house. All of them look expensive. Two of them are Rolls Royce, one is a Mercedes, and one is from a brand I don't recognize.

I am familiar with such expensive toys, not that I ride in any. I have seen them at parties and events where I serve occasionally. Those are the places where these luxuries and their owners belong. Parked in my poor neighbourhood, they look incongruous.

I gawk at the vehicles before I realize that they may be bearers of bad news. When I come to my senses, the unending fleet of cars makes my heart sink. I cross my fingers, hoping to God that uncle Franco hasn't associated himself with the wrong people again.

If the cars aren't casually parked outside our front gate, we are in big trouble.

I push my legs to walk faster. The pinching pain begs me to stop, or at least slow down. I wince at the discomfort, yet I force myself to sprint. Failing to run with my swollen legs, I barely manage to jog.

Generally, the street is filled with kids and their mothers in the evening. Today, a deathly calm sits there, shooing away any visitor with its viciousness. The cloudy grey sky warns me of mishap and the stinging breeze whispers wickedly in my ears. All this could have scared me away, if I hadn't faced worse.

Avoiding the lane in front of my house, I take the alternative route which leads me to the back door of the house. It opens in the kitchen and is regularly used by me after my nightly excursions at work.

I slowly open the door, trying not to make a creaking noise. I tip toe my way inside and close the door. When I turn around, a fat figure bumps into me. I had expected to encounter a local goon, but luck isn't on my side. I could have expected politeness from a thug, but not from the person standing in front of me.

"Aunt, what is this all about? Why are those cars lined up outside our home?" I question, hoping for an answer. I cock my eyebrow to persuade her to tell me.

"Bella, my dear, we have some friends here. Please come in." My evil aunt speaks in the sweetest voice I have ever heard from her. Her tenderness disconcerts me. I make the strangest face and touch her forehead to check if she has a temperature.

Aunt Roseline is my mother's sister. I have known her and her husband, uncle Franco Beaumont, since childhood. I used to enjoy spending time with them when I was a kid. Little did I know their true intentions then.

I have been living with them, in their house, for 10 years. I was 12 years old when my parents died in a car accident. They had been on a business trip and had left me with the nanny at our home in Paris. Three weeks after their death, I was informed that my uncle and aunt were ready to take my custody. I had no living relatives apart from them, and being the only heir of my parents' properties and assets, I was a good catch.

I shifted from Paris to Brussels, and my parents' properties were transferred to me. Since I was a minor, my aunt and uncle were entrusted with the responsibility of my guardianship. Soon after I joined them, I noticed my uncle's habits of alcoholism and serial gambling. 

He goes out every evening to gamble with his friends and often lands us in trouble because he rarely has a winning streak. He regularly borrows money to pay for his pleasures and once my parents' property was exhausted, I had to work to pay his debts. 

I know I could have left long back, because I had money in my pocket till the age of sixteen, but I couldn't. I have no family. I have nowhere to go. Howsoever I may criticize my relatives, they were there for me when I needed them the most. They took me in when no one had, and they took care of me in my illness. They gave me food, shelter, and warmth. I couldn't have abandoned them.

But my love and devotion weren't enough. My uncle and aunt have no children of their own, and I thought that I will take care of them forever. But unfortunately, I could never become the apple of their eyes. They reduced me to a machine that paid their bills and debts. 

Every day, I wake up at four and do household chores before leaving for work by seven. I often do two to three jobs to keep the money coming, and in the evening, cooking dinner is also my duty. Yet, my aunt is seldom good to me. Even birthdays don't come with warm greetings and sweet smiles.

This is why the sudden shift in her attitude unnerves me. Her words are sugar-coated and as much as I want her affection to be true, I know it is fake.

"Aunt, are you all right? Who's there?" I crane my neck to look behind her but her large figure makes it impossible.

Before she could reply, a mysterious man emerges from the living room. His tall height makes me lift my face to look into his eyes. His black shirt and crease-free trousers make him look desirable. His hairy arms and dusky skin visible because of his rolled up sleeves make him look delicious as desert. A five o'clock shadow decorates his jaw. His slim and chiseled face makes him look like a model. However, his unmistakably cold copper eyes catch my attention for longer than necessary. 

I bite my lower lip unknowingly.

Calling him handsome won't do justice to his beauty. He is one of almighty's precious creations. He is Peitho- the Greek God of seduction. He seems capable of having any woman on her knees.

I look at him from tip to toe once again, judging him by his looks. His attire must have been expensive, considering the fitting and the quality of cloth that is visible from naked eyes. I never admire brands and expensive clothing, but for once, I want to be dressed in something better than the work-uniform I am wearing. I look underdressed in front of him. Probably he makes the same observation as his lips curl in a smirk.

He tucks his hands in the pockets of the trouser. Walking towards us meaningfully, he carries an aura of superiority with him. He reeks of money, and though he looks like a gentleman, my wits tutor me otherwise. I haven't seen him before in the locality or the city. My guts tell me to run away. I know that he is not the friend I wish him to be. The energy around him wards me off, but I stand my ground.