Morituro - Book 1

8

| CHAPTER EIGHT |

SITTING IN FRONT of Raphael, now, is making me feel nauseous. Not because my body is practically exposed to his wandering eyes, but because I'm not in control. I don't know what he's thinking. His face shows nothing, no emotion. He wears a mask every second of everyday. And while it very much intimidates me, it also makes me curious. A burning desire sits within me to want to get to know who this man really is. Both sides of him.

The side of him that gave me an ice pack for my bruised face. The side of him that exposes his very thought. Wether it's good or bad I want to know what makes him tick; what makes him happy or devastated. I need to know. Not because I harbor romantic feelings for this man, but because I want to be in control.

I pledged to myself as soon as I stepped foot out of Utah that I would be exactly who I wasn't allowed to be. I didn't want anyone to tell me what I could or couldn't wear, who I could speak to, and most importantly who I could love. That was all for me to decide, it was my right as a human being.

So now as I sit here, I feel as if that little control I thought I possessed was moot.

"I'm waiting." I look up, away from the flames that were the focus of my attention. My hand that presses the ice pack to my jaw lowers.

He wears a thick invisible shield that hides anything and everything he doesn't want others to see. I guess, it's from his real life. His mafia lifestyle. Which makes me wonder if he would even care if I told him what happened.

My thoughts travel back to when he wiped the blood of my chin only minutes ago. The look in his eyes. Even though, I couldn't pick out what it was it was still there. Like a small little crack in a cars windshield, maybe if I kept pushing at it the cracks would eventually become visible and easily break. Revealing Raphael. Who he truly is.

"What will you do if I-"

"You will tell me." His eyes squint and his fist encloses. Fear strikes me and I'm quick to regret my decision for running into the arms of a man who has most likely done worse than Jake.

I take a deep breath to help gather my thoughts, then I speak up. "For a while now Jake, my neighbor, has been getting a little too comfortable. He would always say provocative things, and while to some it might've sounded innocent, it really wasn't.

So, today when I was leaving my apartment he grabbed me and demanded why I was ignoring him. I snapped when he called me a tease. I'll admit I was the first to strike but," I paused when my voice broke, "he just kept going and going."

I wiped the stray tears that left my eyes. I can't stand looking into his gorgeous eyes. Not when I'm like this. Weak.

We stay in silence for a pregnant pause. The flames become my center of attention once again as I bit my nails, awaiting for his response.

"Look at me." I hate when he says that but I do as he says. "He deserved what you did to him. Don't feel bad about it."

Did I? Did I feel bad about it? No. Not at all. There's no bone is my body, no fiber in my being, that's doubting my actions. I'm proud for the blows I've given him. Even more proud that I stood up for myself. All that's left is a sliver of fear of what Jake will do next. What will he do once I step foot in my apartment.

"You better run..."

"I can help you-"

"Help me?" My mouth spills out without my brains permission. Now is not the time to say or make decisions that are not thought through, Layla!

But my surprise and anger got the best of me in that split second.

He nods, "Si. But I cannot help without a price."