the Mafia's Mercy

⊰ 7 ⊱ An Impossible Request

I inhale deeply as my eyelids flutter open.

There's an odd numbness lingering in my chest as my empty eyes gaze at the coffered ceiling with gold lining. Despite the unfamiliarity, my absent mind ignores the lingering discomfort in my shoulder as my sight shifts to the illuminating, flat, round bulbs in the center of the odd geometric pattern of the decorative panel.

I wasn't ready. Although, I suppose, I probably never would have been.

Levi...

I didn't get to say goodbye the first time he left, and I can't help but wonder if maybe the reason he avoided saying goodbye at all is because he knew how I'd react. If 24-year-old me couldn't hold it together, what hope was there for 18-year-old me to not have utterly collapsed under the heartbreak of knowingly parting ways with the only family I had left—the only family I have left.

I suppose I only wish he'd stayed with me until I fell asleep.

Would it have made it all better?

The breath that parts my lips makes my chest slowly fall, my head tilting as I flicker my gaze to the beige walls that compliment the golden lining of the baseboard molding, meeting the ends of the bottom of the walls. The light casting from the windows with parted elegant shading drapes makes my eyes narrow ever-so-slightly as they adjust to the bright light beaming into the room.

From the comfort of the circular king-sized bed with warm pastel yellow bed sheets, I turn my head once more, my gaze tracing my healthy arm up as it rests extended above my head. It isn't until my eyes land on the silver cuff locked around my wrist that I realize that the plan isn't to keep me to the bed until I'm ready to get up—it's to keep me to the bed until he is ready to let me off of it.

Marcel...

My blood boils at the mere thought of him.

I hate him.

I hate his family.

Mostly, I hate how little regard he has for the lives that he and his father have been responsible for shattering.

I feel my heart pounding in my chest at the inexplicable and utter despise that I feel for him.

I...loathe him.

For the first time in my life, I catch myself wishing death upon someone—death upon him. Then, I realize that there are worse things than death, and maybe death is more mercy than he deserves.

I'm careful, turning on my side as I throw my legs over the edge of the bed. With my hand cuffed to the headboard, I sit up slowly, and a brief dizzy spell overcomes me, my vision going hazy for what feels like seconds. A faint pounding lingers in my head as I lean forward, my sight fixed on the white nail polish on my toes. It isn't until I avert my gaze to my lap that I realize that I'm no longer wearing the hospital gown I'd been taken from the hospital in. Instead, an awfully familiar pair of black leggings hug my meaty thighs, and an oversized white t-shirt with a black butterfly and skull silhouette dresses my torso comfortably.

These are mine. These are all mine.

My eyes snap up, landing on a pair of white sneakers positioned beside the elegant dresser at the far end of the room. I recognize them in a heartbeat, being the pair of sneakers I'd been wearing when I got home the night that I was shot.

Did he have all of my clothes packed up and brought here..?

...

What. The. Fuck.

I clench my jaw as I notice the familiar pink suitcase resting beside the champagne colored suede armchair across the foot of the bed, positioned against the empty wall.