Black Widow | 18+

1 | Goddess of the Hunt

Artemisia 

I was given my name by Salome Pericelo, my mother, or the woman who laid on a table and allowed the c-section to be performed. Resentments aside, the name was unknowingly fitting, deriving from Artemis: Goddess of the Hunt. 

It took a lot for me to go from being the hunted to being the hunter, but I finally claimed my title at the age of 11, when I had torn my captors to pieces with my hands and towards the end a gun, just hours after hearing a different human voice for the first time in three years. 

That voice belonged to someone who I consider to be the closest thing in my world to a father; that voice belonged to David. David never allowed me to be kidnapped by a bunch of lowlife criminals and then tortured in all the ways imaginable for three years of my childhood, so I clung onto him. That was how low my bar was. 

Sounds like a sob story, and maybe it is, but in my head it's a victory because it made me who, or what, I am today. I get told a lot that it's allowed to be a sob story, that I'm allowed to be furious about it, but what's the point when I'm not allowed to kill the people responsible? Or not yet at least. 

The Cosa Nostra, they were responsible. No, they weren't my captors, but they never came looking even though my family were a stronghold of them. So much for loyalty. 

My father was an awful man. There's this view of these Mafia men that they are cold-blooded killers when out doing "business", but they get home to their children and their gorgeous wives and they become human again. It was the case for all the other little girls I grew up with, but not for me. 

You see, my mother was Colombian; raised within the cartel and treated like a true heiress, only she wasn't. Salome was raised to be a pawn in the bloody game of chess that is the underworld; getting her to marry my father was the best thing the Italians and Colombians ever did, because now the Italians had coke on tap to sprinkle all over New York City and Los Angeles, and the Colombians had money rolling in from the US. It was a big 'fuck you' to the DEA at the time because the Italians were already arm in arm with politicians, and it's been like that ever since. 

In that respect, everyone was very grateful for the marriage. 

However, I came out of it too, and not only was I a girl (so, useless), but I wasn't a pure Italian, and my chances at getting anywhere in that family were slim. My father wanted a son, one that could rule next to Carlo's boy, Leandro, so when he didn't get one it became hell on earth for me. Until it got worse when I was kidnapped. 

I never truly thought I was useless though before my kidnapping, because then I had men showing me attention; I started to come to consciousness at around six to truly notice this, maybe a little too much attention. 

I know deep down that's why they didn't come looking, because they knew some of the men were going to get a bit too fond of me; things were better left unsaid, and I was the perfect excuse. My mother was disinterested, my father was disgusted with me, and my "disappearance" meant one less problem for the faltering morality of the Italian kingpins. 

So be it. 

It made me what I am today. 

-

"Artemisia!" 

The voice is loud and fucking annoying, and when I open my eyes that irritation is only fuelled by the sight of the man grinning above me. Alvaro. 

"Fuck off," I grunted, turning my head to the side. He had reason to be here, it was eight PM and it was time to continue the day. The only thing I couldn't understand was why he was in my fucking apartment.