From the beginning I was born to be a dangerous man. The moment my father knew he was going to be given a son I was crowned the inheritor of the Italian mafia empire. The firstborn, a girl, was just his disappointment so to have a son was his miracle.
It wasn't long before I was handed my first gun at six years old and trained how to kill someone with my eyes closed.
First, it started with my father's "loose ends". It was at fourteen I felt the kickback of a trigger and witnessed blood splatter against a brick wall. By seventeen I was cleaning up my own jobs, and by twenty I controlled my own capo and his army. Everything moved so fast yet I was forced to always be the perfect soldier.
His perfect soldier.
And it was such a miracle that I had the natural ability to read people. Perfect for my father to use me to control his enemies. Perfect to find out their deepest secrets.
The eldest, Amalea, resented me for it. I saw it in the look in her eyes and in the way she smiled. While becoming the capo dei capi wasn't ever something I always desperately wanted, I know Lea wished she could hold that title for herself. We were very close to each other and even when she was being sweet I could hear the twinge of jealously in her voice.
I guess that's why I always stuck by Adrian most of the time. I never had a big friend group to surround myself with, and Adrian was the closest thing I had to a brother. He was a capo, ranked just below me, and we worked smoothly as a team. He didn't want the power like some of the others, and was content on his position. I always admired that about him.
There was a drug shipment coming in at the New York Harbor one night. I was with Adrian and my uncle, Donato, discussing it when she walked in with our drinks. It was the first time I'd ever seen her before, and I didn't remember hiring her. Although usually Lea controlled that aspect of the club.
I first noticed her pretty green eyes. I could tell she was nervous by the way she bit her lip and how the tray shook slightly as she came to the coffee table. Her blonde curls were tied back in a half up style and she had an uplifting feeling about her. She was the kind of girl who lit up faces when she entered the room.
And she was gorgeous. She was so beautiful I almost didn't want to say anything. The moment I saw her I couldn't deny it, she was the most gorgeous woman I'd ever seen.
For I second I forgot I was in this mess. I forgot I was the underboss of a mafia. I forgot I was a dangerous man who couldn't be trusted with a life. I forgot my past, and all because this simple girl from England bit her lip and pour me a drink.
It was hard for me to believe that same girl was now crying softly to herself at midnight while she sat on the floor, leaning against the couch. Her hand covered her mouth, her eyes rimmed with red. Her face dripped tears, and soft sobs escaped from her body. There was a heavy weight on her shoulders. Something too heavy for her to carry.
Occasionally she would squeeze her eyes shut, as if she wanted to forget something. She pulled her knees up to her chest, and I could tell she just wanted it to be over. Her nails trailed her arms leaving red stripes in their place. There was something hurting her deep inside.
I watched from the hallway, everything breaking at the sight of her. She reminded me so much of myself. I want to help her, but I feared if I touched her she'd break too.
"Christian?" My eyebrows shot up as I realized she had noticed me, "Why are you still awake?"
I moved to go near her, but stopped myself before I could move. I shouldn't be doing this.
"I don't sleep." I admitted , and she looked at me sadly.
"Well... go to bed, okay?" I think she tried to smile, but it didn't come out that way, "I'm fine. I just get a little upset sometimes." Maria shrugged it off and stood up like she hadn't just been crying her eyes out.
"Something's happen to you hasn't it. You seen some-"
"Nothing's happened, Christian!" She suddenly shouted. I stepped back abruptly, "There's nothing wrong with me." She said softer, but I could tell she had directed it more to herself than me.
"I never said anything was wrong with you, Maria." I replied in a low voice. Her eyes flicked up at me, and she walked over closer.
"I get upset at night sometimes. I don't think crying is so wrong, so just- just..." She didn't finish her sentence, instead she pushed past me, and went back to her room.
I stood in that hallway for what seemed like hours, confused. What happened to her in her past?
At 3 am I went to her room and saw her asleep against the base of her bed, flask of whiskey in hand. Her hair was messy and her cheeks were still wet. She looked exhausted.
I had sighed and carried her to my room to sleep. My bed was more comfortable and I wasn't going to bed anytime soon anyways.
She was beautifully broken in so many ways yet in the morning she would be put together again. Her tears would be gone, and her hair would be brushed through. No one would know she had cried for hours that night. No one would know the pain of her brokenness, except me, who just had the pleasure of witnessing it.
