" They're words. They mean whatever you interpret."
Elara Valenti, a seventeen year old girl just trying to get by. Well, get by killing, fighting, arrests and abuse.
Elara was taken at the mere age of two from her family, the Valenti's.
Or, the It...
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The car ride to the airport was quiet. I could tell they were trying to think of the right thing to say.
But they weren't lying when they said they owned a jet. They owned a private jet. And here it sat in all its glory in front of me, matte black in in color. There were guards and SUV's surrounding. Suspicious.
I didn't stare for too long and just followed them onto the plane. I watched as my two brothers sat down. Would I even call them brothers? That was a question to myself I couldn't answer.
Reluctantly, I went and sat down at the comfortable seat farthest away from them. My hand subconsciously went to my waistband where my oversized sweatshirt was hiding my belt of knives strapped onto me.
This was going to be a hell of a ride.
----------------
Actually, it wasn't.
In fact, Santino and Lorenzo barely spoke a word to me. They were too focused on the work on their laptops. That was fine by me. It made the whole plane ride less awkward.
Now, we just landed. Right in NYC. Santino and Lorenzo had packed up the little work-related things they got out. You see, what I do know about them is that they own the Valenti franchise. They own casinos, clubs, hotels, bars, restaurant's, you name it.
There has been some controversy about if they're connected to the Italian Mafia or not. I myself am not too sure. I will have to do a background check later once we get to their home.
"Elara?" Lorenzo asked. I looked up and realized they had gotten up. "You spaced out," he said. Men were taking our luggage off the plane and into a car.
"Right," I muttered, getting up and smoothing out my clothes. My gaze was as emotionless and cold as always. I could sense them trying to study me, to figure me out. To read me. Not like they were going to get much out of that. I'm like a book that had its pages drenched, then glued together, then weathered.
Finally, Santino sighed and broke the silence. "Come on. Let's go home," he said.
Home.
I've never had a place to call home. I never felt safe in a place besides with Noah at his house. I guess that was like my home to an extent.
But their home was not my home.
Home: the place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household.
I've never been at ease. Never had a family. My household was abusive. I was never something permanent. They always were putting me somewhere else. Selling me off.
I kept my guard up as I followed the two men who were blood related to me. I would not call them family yet. Maybe I never would. Maybe they're just like Scarlett and Jason.
