𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝟏 | fidelity ( BWWM )
/fɪˈdɛlɪti/
noun
faithfulness to a person, cause, or belief, demonstrated by continuing loyalty and support.
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𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐎 Vitale, Capo Dei Capi of the Famiglia, had rarely shown in...
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BLINDING SUN TRICKLED DOWN the marble staircase that lead up to a castle fit for royalty. Mafia royalty.
Miraculously, my leg was functioning as normal - the bullet wound must've been stitched when I was passed out cold on the flight. I could still feel the drowsiness from the drugs they had dosed me with.
I felt myself shrink as the mansion grew with size when the doors were wrenched apart. Gold, wealth and old money oozed from each piece of framed artwork lining the walls as far as the eye could see.
"Là-dedans, maintenant [ In there, now ]." An unnecessarily firm push shoved me inside one of the nearest rooms. I fought the urge to scowl back at the bastard as I took the time to take in my surroundings. This room was just as grand as the rest of the mansion.
A dark pine table sat in the centre. Dramatic, golden strokes of colour decorated the room. A large fireplace on one side of the room held a mantelpiece just above it which was decorated with vases, incense and candlesticks.
It all looked the same. Untouched.
Exactly how I'd left it, since I'd ran.
This room brought back a rush of memories. The reminders of my broken childhood tore apart the barriers I'd fought so long to build.
Every item in this room, every souvenir, every thing I was able to touch, all of it brought back that stomach-turning rush. I'd been able to run but the nightmares followed me everywhere, inescapable.
Each inhale was harder to take than the last but I got a grip of myself. Years ago I had promised myself to never again show weakness in front of men like these.
To distract myself, I counted the number of them sat at the table. There were eight, most of them unrecognisable to me. They spoke to each other in a language that definitely wasn't French. Italian?
The Corsican and Italian mafia had been rivals for years; seeing them all in one room wasn't a coincidence. I felt the fingers guide me to the centre of the room.
"Bienvenue à la maison [ Welcome home ], Arya." The voice of this man was enough to send chills down my spine.
My face slowly turned to find his. His face was no longer as youthful as I remembered. Dark circles outlined his eyes, with a beard seasoned with salt and pepper tickling his neck and mouth.
"Laurent."
His name was like venom slithering from my lips. The disgust in my tone wasn't missed, and all ears on the table suddenly piqued with interest.
