The Devil Wears Red | Mafia Romance |

03| Drink, Drink, Drink

TW! Abuse

Alastair's POV:

"That was amazing," Mandy said, breathless next to him. He thought her name was Mandy. Maybe it was Maddie? He knew it had to start with an M.

Honestly, he had been hooking up with so many different people these past couple of months, names were never important. A lot of things didn't become important, especially the text he just received from his brother.

Alastair's relationship with his brother, or his family in general, was simply that they shared a last name and their eyes all matched. He didn't have the average relationship you'd imagine a son had with their parents, or a brother had with his siblings.

Alastair, being of the oldest of the three, had the most responsibilities. He was expected to keep the family afloat, while also keeping the mafia thriving. He was breaded into being this cold blooded killer, a ruthless man who got what he wanted every time.

Macy looked over to Alastair, her hair in a disheveled mess, naked all around, breathless, with eyes full of lust. She rested her palm on his chest, running her hands down the shard, defined edges that lined his torso. He immediately cringed at the feeling, grabbing Melissa's wrist, and taking her hand off chest.

She frowned slightly, but he couldn't care. He didn't even know why she was still there. "You can leave now," he told her, irritated with her presence.

Simply, she got up slowly, grabbing her bra and clothes off the floor, putting them on while he stared at the ceiling above him. Once Mary's clothes were on, she opened the door to the hotel room—a little loud to make her presents know—waiting for a reaction from the man in the bed.

But she got nothing.

With that, Maria closed the door, and Alastair was finally at peace. His hands folded behind his head, as he rested against the pillow he had been laying on while McKenzie got changed.

Alastair had been stressed lately, but he didn't know how to cope with it. Most people—most being normal people—would tell him to meditate or do yoga. At points he even considered the idiotic ideas. But instead, he drank his weight in whatever expensive scotch he could find, and had hookups as casual as having a conversation.

He had been stressed for months now, the pressure of his fathers words building stones so high above his shoulders he might collapse. So, instead of being home—to have to experience the dull antics of his fathers words—he would go to a club, find someone hot, and hook up with them for the night in a hotel.

Anything was better than being home, Alastair believed. Absolutely anything. He could get shot a million times, and would rather endure that then the pressure of his father reminding him that the throne to the biggest mafia in the world was in his hands.

Alastair knows what torture looks like, and especially feels like. But he never thought this anxiety he was feeling would be just like that. It felt like it was eating it up and there was no escape. Some days he wished he could run so fast that his knees wanted to collapse, that his shins splint, so fast that he couldn't hear his fathers words piercing him.

Instead, he laid in the bed that he had to spend a good amount for because Margie couldn't handle any other hotel. His phone rang a couple of times, but he ignored it—letting it go to voicemail every time.

Finally when he did decide to pick it up, he saw that it was a text from his brother, Aeron. Pleas and begs, wondering if he will be at family breakfast tomorrow. He snickered at how pathetic his brother was at begging for something.

Aeron was one of the weaker Daunts in the family. It was evident that he was never getting close to the title of don, so Alastair stopped fighting for the spot. Aeron, although good with weaponry and had an amazing aim, was sympathetic. He was an empathetic. He didn't like hurting people until he asked a million and one questions.

Are they innocent? Why am I hurting them? What did they do? Do they have a family?

Gosh. The family one always made Alastair's blood boil. It was the thing that made him want to choke someone. Who gave a shit if they had a family? Their father had a hit on his head every day, and no one cares that he has three kids and a wife.

Why did Aeron care, was always Alastair's number one question.

Alastair got up from the bed, going to a small liquor cart, finding whatever dark liquid could burn this throat and make him forget about the night. He continued to drink, and drink, and drink, until he felt so light he passed out on the bed.

For someone with a strong alcohol tolerance, he always liked the part of passing out asleep.

Aeron' s POV:

"Dad I swear I called him," Aeron pleaded with the strict man who was sitting at the family table. It was past eight, and there still hadn't been sign of Alastair, even though he was supposed to arrive hours ago to discuss whatever their father needed.

Marco was becoming mad by the seconds ticking, and as he always did when he was mad, he took his anger out on Aeron. First, he did it at the breakfast table with an audience around. His mother stayed quiet like she always did, and Lorenzo made an attempt to help but became quiet after unheard pleas.

Now, Aeron was stuck in a separate room with his angry father. "You don't know how to do one thing right," his father scolded, landing another slap to his face. Aeron was already on his knees from being hit multiple times. The abuse his father used as a 'teaching method' was killing him.

"Father I promise, I can show you that I texted him," Aeron begged, reaching for his phone, but his father just hit him again, this time so hard his face made it to the ground. Blood poured from his mouth, as he spit out one of his teeth.

"I don't want to see your bullshit!" His father yelled. "If you truly tried, he would have been here. You didn't care to have enough respect for me to call your brother. Or find him." Now he was trying to manipulate the young boy. Trying to make him feel sorry for Alastair's absent presence.

And he knew it was going to work. Everyone knew Aerons weak points was manipulation, was making him feel as if this was all his fault. The heavy footsteps of his father began to get father away from him, hinting his disappearance.

Aeron picked himself off the flood, forcing back the violent tears ready to drown him. He waited until his father was definitely gone, before walking to his room, practically limping in pain while he held his stomach that got it's fair share of punches.

He should be immune to the pain and abuse, but this was actually the reason he was a great gunsman. He never liked the up-close action, never liked the idea of someone having the ability to just punch their way to dominance. So he was a sharp shooter from afar, always hiding in the shadows.

This was his best trait, and his fathers abuse built him to be like this. He wondered if it was a good or bad thing of how his talent began.