The Daughter of the Gangleader •UNDER EDITION•

River Bradshaw

It's been one week in my new fucking school, and it's almost the same as my first day; as entertaining as punching myself in the face with a brick stone. The only thing that gets me up in the morning is the mission. Today, however, it's my ringing phone.

"The fuck is it?" I grown, knowing too damn well anyone giving themself the right to call me this early must either be sick of their life, or trapped in a burning house.

"Rise and shine," I hear River's voice sing, getting my heart to skip a beat.

But his voice doesn't seem to be from the phone.

I jump straight up and see my cousin standing in the middle of my room, his phone glued to his ear and a grin glued to his face.

"River!"

I throw myself off my bed, letting him catch both of us when as I fall over to him, burning with excitement and joy. I missed him.

"Easy Arlet."

I stand up straight and help him up, grabbing his shoulders and staring him up and down to assure myself that this is for real, that he's actually here and thereby has ended my misery.

River means literally everything to me. Him and I have always been inseparable, ever since day one. Neither of us is fond of our parents, and neither of our parents are found of us. The only difference between us is that my aunt actually cares if something happens to River, and my father literally sees him as the son he never had.

He looks pretty much like me; blue eyes, brown hair, tall. He got the muscles. He carries his very beloved guns, his skills as sharp as the arrows I shoot with my bow. When I'd be in a hotel, doing my work, he'd wait outside with his team, hiding and waiting for me to hear if he needed to attack the place so I could get out fast. Until now it's happened twice or trice. Once he's done the place will be in ruins, the cops unaware and unable to track him or anyone else down as talented as he is. I blame my father and the obligatory classes he gave an eight year old River with pistols and wine bottles.

He'll do anything for me, I'll do anything for him. The way we are, the things we've done, said, heard for each other, everything we've experienced through our years in the North, me as the daughter and him as the heir, is beyond imaginable. Beyond describable. We both know both of us being alive right now beat most odds.

"When did you get here?" I ask him, still shocked to see him.

"Overnight," he answers and sits down on my bed. "Your father called my mom, explaining your fury over moving, and told me to come over. Help you with the mission, keep you in tact."

"Well, the mission is an excuse. He loves you. And I am pissed over moving."

"So what is even the mission?"