The Donafrio Donor (18+ Only) [COMPLETED]

1: In Which She Sates His Hunger

1: In Which She Sates His Hunger

********************************

“You have to go to the police, Dani,” said Adam.

“But after we beat the accent out of him,” Charlie added menacingly, giving me the look he saved for his special I’m-your-twin-so-you-best-listen-to-me moments.

I was sitting at our father’s chipped wooden kitchen table, a cup of black coffee warming my hands and an untouched slice of Marmite-slathered toast before me. I needed the coffee more than my brothers could ever know. It took everything in my power to keep from succumbing to sleep and dreaming about my Mickey growing up and becoming a bloody talented drug dealer.

God forbid, I thought morosely, gingerly taking another sip of the coffee.

“Well?” Adam pressed, folding his arms across his chest as he moved to stand in front of the sink beside his younger brother. In a frayed, grey Crowing Uni rugby T-shirt and black shorts decorated with tiny Tweety and Sylvester images, he hardly looked like a dangerous character. Carlo Donafrio would pummel him to a pulp before he could even lift an arm to swing a punch.

“I’m not going to the police and you’re not beating the...the accent out of Donafrio,” I said slowly.

Charlie visibly deflated. “Why not?”

“Because,” I said, remembering Carlo’s curt explanation of what had transpired three years ago, “he promised to never come near me or Mickey again.”

Adam, who was two years older than Charlie and me, rolled his eyes. “Right – and the word of a known crook should be taken as the gospel.”

“The fact that you can’t even sue that fúcking joke of a clinic –” Charlie began, but I cut him off.

“Can we please not talk about this?” I said, letting out an exasperated sigh. “And don’t tell Dad. Or Mum. About anything.”

“Don’t tell Dad what?” My father’s voice came from behind me as he sauntered into the room, the morning paper in hand. “Morning, sweetheart,” he said, pecking the top of my head. He didn’t sound especially startled to find all three of his grown-up children in his kitchen on a balmy Saturday morning. Adam and Charlie practically still lived at home with him. “When did you get here?” he added, pulling open the refrigerator.

Did I really want to explain to him that I’d crept in last night with Mickey fast asleep in my arms? That I felt safer in my old bedroom? That I wanted my brothers around me because they were free security?

“Just a little while ago,” I lied, daring my brothers to say otherwise. They didn’t.

“Where’s my grandson?”

“Upstairs.”

“Everything all right?” Dad was looking at me, a glass of orange juice in hand. His rheumy blue eyes seemed to be searching mine. It wasn’t fair that my father could tell when I was lying just by glancing at me.

“Dad, got a minute?” said Adam, springing into action. “It’s about my Merc.”

Just like that, I lost our father’s attention. His eyes swivelled to my big brother, excitement emanating from his tall form. Car talk was the closest thing to Disneyland for Dad. Top Gear was like a child’s cartoon to him, so it was no wonder that he instantly launched into a heated interrogation about Adam’s Mercedes SLK with gusto. That gave me enough time to slink out of the kitchen – except that Charlie followed me upstairs.