Cindy Lowe, the daughter of the #1 most dangerous mafia leader in England. She is confident, dangerous, intelligent and has a body "to die for". Cindy moves from London to New York due to her father's business. New city means a new school and new fr...
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"CINDY COME DOWN FOR A SECOND LOVE!" my dad shouts from downstairs, my head pounds as I take my time to realise that I'm no longer dreaming. I slowly try to untangle my legs from the sheets of my bed, rubbing the pads of my fingers against my temples to ease the pain in my head. "I'll be there in a minute dad I just promised my bed 30 more minutes of bonding time sorry..." I mumbled into my pillow, my body slowly relaxing into the sheets again as I struggle to remember what he had asked in the first place. The sound of light rain takes over my thoughts, the smell of my dads aftershave lingers in my room from when he came in last night forcing me to set an alarm for this morning. "OKAY" my dads response snaps me out of my daze. My eyes shoot open at the sound of his response This isn't normal my dad normally- The sound of heavy footsteps fill the house making my eyes widen slightly. "Shit- shit shit" i mumble as I painfully fling the duvet off me, the cold making the goosebumps rise on my legs. I could cry at the feeling of not being in that bed anymore. I clumsily tried to run across the room, my weak morning legs not giving me much help as I finally got to my desk. I pick up my hairbrush and start to yank it through my hair to make myself look like I haven't just got up, silently screaming whenever I come across a slight knot that won't budge. I cringe to myself at my own stupidity as I acknowledge my not so ready for the day outfit; An oversized Fleetwood Mac graphic T-shirt and black pyjama shorts.
The door slams open revealing my not so happy dad as he observes my awkward seating position on the chair with my black hairbrush being harshly tugged in my hair. I give him an awkward smile followed by an even more awkward wave using the hand that was holding my hairbrush, wanting the ground to swallow me up in a hole as I realise the hairbrush is now just hanging from my head.
My dad shakes his head slightly with a ghost smirk on his lips as he tries not to fuel my embarrassment even more. the smirk is soon replaced by a straight line as his eyebrows furrow slightly, his breathing becoming more shallow shown by the movement of his chest. He's nervous.
"Hey dad, what's up?" I ask with a slightly confused tone, my body now fully facing towards him with one leg crossed over the other, my arms crossed after I gently removed the hairbrush from my hair. Out of the 17 years of my dad looking after me, he is hardily ever nervous. Yes, his job practically forced him into lacking all types of emotion, but the one thing he takes pride in is his family. Many close associates have voiced their concerns for my dads obvious care when it comes to me, claiming that he is only putting me in more danger in the future, but he always had the same response:
