Mr. Mafia man

. Chapter 1 .

Abigail's POV:

"Hurry the fuck up we need to leave for this dinner NOW!" Tristan's loud voice sounded from the driveway.

I struggled to lock the door as my hand were shaking from fear but I managed to do it on my third attempt and I made my way to the car where Tristan was sat.

Hi my names Abigail and let's just say my life is shit. It never used to be like this but I guess things change.

I live in Italy with my Boyfriend Tristan and it started off amazingly but for about two years now I've never hated a man more than I hate the one who is sat in the same car as me.

***

We started driving down the long dirt road towards my parents house as they have invited us out for dinner to celebrate me getting a new job.

I was happy to finally be out of the house but scared that my makeup would rub off that hid my bruised face.

Makeup had become my new best friend for two years I've covered my bruises and scars that he left on my skin. I was his canvas and I had to live with that.

"Remember don't talk to anyone unless they speak to you and stay by my side at all times got it!" Tristan said as he drove into the driveway of my parents house.

"Yes got it." I replied as we left the car and walked towards my parents house.

My long white dress was dragging across the dirt floor but I couldn't complain because Tristan made me wear it and if I was to complain I would be told off for that.

"Well what are you waiting for? Knock on the door you stupid girl." Tristan said as he rolled his eyes at me.

I quickly knocked on the door not wanting to get into trouble and soon enough the wooden door opened and I was pulled into my mothers arms.

"Ah my sweet, sweet girl come sei stato?"
(How have you been?)

"sono stata brava mamma". I replied.
(I've been good mamma).

I loved when I visited my momma it was the only place where I could actually breath and fell safe.

"Come come I made your favourites for tea." My mums thick Italian accent was clear in her voice when she spoke English but that comes with having a British dad you have to adapt to the others first language.

"grazie mamma."
(Thankyou mamma).

We all walked into the kitchen where my dad stood making his famous English dish of shepherd's pie while my mum was busy making her home maid pasta dish that I loved.

"Pappa!" I called out as I ran into my fathers arms.

My father was very tall and well built. He was full English blood and he moved here from Cornwall about thirty years ago, ten years before I was born making me twenty years old.

My father can speak Italian really well since he and my mother met not even after a week of him moving to Italy.

There love is the kind that isn't breakable and no matter how many ups and downs they have, they always managed to come back stronger.