Paper Trails 2 | Draft

31.

Quick shoutout to @simoden who helped me out with translations ❤️ thank you again boo!

Change.

I had to change, because apparently, my ass looked too jiggly in this skirt. Not exactly his words, but close enough.

So I did.

In the car.

For his comfort and mine. Neither of us were interested in having his crime family (and family friends?) lick their lips and watch my ass whenever I walked. Nooo thanks.

We didn't talk much on the drive there. He was on his phone a lot—different conversations with different people, all in Italian so I couldn't understand a word of it. I did happen to pick up "meet" which is weird, because I didn't even know I knew the Italian word for meet. When he wasn't on his phone, he was staring out the window, his fist pressed against his mouth. He was anxious. The closer we got, the more anxious he became.

It was work, it was business. I knew that, which is why I didn't question him.

Who knew what type of shit the mafia got into.

I had a few ideas.

None of them were comforting. I mean, you go from a respected organization to a crime syndicate...there's a lot that comes to play. A lot of shit must have went wrong.

So I didn't know what to expect. It was unreal. This is the Mafia. You hear stories and you read articles, but there's no substance—maybe because you think you'll never see it firsthand. I'm not going to lie and say I wasn't stereotyping the shit out of this. I already knew I expected to see a balding older man. In my head he's heavyset, with a smooth accent. He's not ugly, just older. But women would be attracted to him—attracted to his money and his power. He'd say "cazzo" a lot, and maybe throw in a "vaffanculo" if someone says something about the weight he's gained. IDK.

I think more when I'm nervous, and most of those thoughts are ridiculous.

"Cinque minuti."

I glanced at the driver. "Huh?"

"Five minutes," Niccolò clarified.

My mouth formed a little 'o' as I looked out the window. My leg bounced anxiously. Okay. So I was nervous. Not as nervous as I was to meet his mother—is that weird?—but nervous enough for my palms to sweat, leaving me to rub them against the denim fabric of my jeans. He noticed, but didn't say anything.

Maybe because I should be nervous? Or because at this point, he just doesn't give a fuck.

"There," Niccolò murmured to me, using his chin to gesture towards the house as we pulled up in front of it.

"The mafia lives here?"

He looked at me. "No. My uncle does."

The car slowed to a stop. Niccolò got out, and walked around to my side to open the door for me while the driver went to take out our bags. The door to my right opened and Niccolò extended a hand towards me. I took it, allowing him to help me out. While Niccolò went towards the driver to speak, I admired the home. It was big. Beautiful. If I had a better understanding of architecture, I'd describe it better but all I got was big and beautiful. And expensive.