the Mafia's Mercy

⊰ 3 ⊱ Reckless Embrace

I sit at the foot of my bed, brushing my knuckles with the pad of my thumb as my hand clenches onto the fingers of my other hand nervously. My leg jumps, the heel of my foot tapping against the carpet floor beneath me.

My heart hasn't quite caught up with the stillness of this moment, its rapid beats a testament to the fear and uncertainty that clings to my like a second skin.

It feels like only seconds ago, yet hours apart, that I was dragged back into the life that I thought had parted ways with me the day that my brother walked out the front door of my childhood home. Now, in the quiet of the place I thought I'd always be safe, I can't help but feel like a boat adrift in the middle of a tsunami.

I never thought that I'd catch myself wishing that I weren't as high as I am right now. The problem is not that I'm not sober. The problem is that while intoxicated me is typically a lot better at handling stressful situations, intoxicated me is also excellent at feeling the extent of my anxiety to an unfortunately heightened degree when induced after the fact.

Is he here to kill me..?

The sound of Marcel dragging the counter stool across the kitchen floor makes me visibly cringe, and as he positions it just a couple of feet in front of me, I feel as though I'm physically shrinking three feet shorter. His hard gaze watches me intently, an unreadable look playing on his features as he lowers himself onto the black stool before me. With his feet parted at shoulder-width, he leans into the backrest, his fingers wrapped around his silver gun, steadied as it lays flat on his lap.

"Relax, doll," he hums lightly. His eyes briefly fall to my hands, watching me helplessly struggle to keep myself from having a nervous breakdown. "I'm not here to hurt you. I just want to ask you a few questions."

Bull-fucking-shit.

I swallow hard, furrowing my eyebrows as I narrow my eyes on him. "Then, why the gun?" I confront him, wanting to not give him the satisfaction from utterly collapsing beneath his scrutiny.

The corners of his lips curl ever so slightly, and just when I think he's going to bite back with a snarky remark the way that he used to, he raises his unoccupied hand in defeat. With the lapel of his suit jacket in his hand, he draws it open, clearing the way as he brings the gun to the holster and effortlessly secures it in its rightful place.

"Sorry. Force of habit," he sings me his shitty excuse.

From the corner of my eye, I watch the pair of men who accompany him stand at the doorway. In black slacks, leather jackets, combat boots, and black v-neck t-shirts, they hold their hands locked in front of them, awaiting their boss' command.

His real name is Marcello—Marcello Saldívar. However, at the time, I didn't know it. I didn't know that he, the son of Guillermo Saldívar, the heir to the Saldívar Mafia empire, was the man that I had blindly offered myself to.

The night of the infamous murder at the gas station, after we'd exchanged names, he offered to drive me back to the safety of my home. Being in no position to refuse, I led him right where I never should have.

I was vulnerable—naive. I was an 18-year-old girl with no friends, desperate for companionship—even if it were for company that I should've never kept.

"This is it," I breathed out sheepishly as I came to stand at the doormat of the locked front door of my childhood home. With my keys in my hands, I looked up at him, offering him a small smile as his eyes lingered on my lips before flickering to meet my gaze.

I felt embarrassed—ashamed—that he'd not only saved me from a situation that could've ended very badly for me and drove me home, but that all I had to offer him was a chocolate bar that I didn't pay for and a petty 'thank you' that I had yet to say out of humility.