Five Years Ago - PDF

0 = *Five years ago* I wasn't much of a talker, I was a feeler, a listener and an observer. Though I didn't think that part of my identity came from birth, rather, it was forced upon me. I needed to feel the energy in the room shift, hear the pin drop and observe look on my fathers face to know wh...

0 = *Five years ago* I wasn't much of a talker, I was a feeler, a listener and an observer. Though I didn't think that part of my identity came from birth, rather, it was forced upon me. I needed to feel the energy in the room shift, hear the pin drop and observe look on my fathers face to know when to flee. I didn't obtain the observing part until I realized, every day after a fight, my mother did her make-up differently than the standard routine. First, she applied a creme, probably to speed up the healing process of her bruises. Then, a green eyeshadow to cover up the purple. Followed by a high covering concealer to hide it all. And lastly, dark eyeshadow just in case any evidence of his cruel hands peeked through. And though she was good at disguising, I could see through it all because the look in her eyes was nothing but regret and pain. The eyes that once looked at her with love, were now filled with rage. The lips that used to curve into a smile, now tensed with anger. And the hands that loved her, beat her until she could see, hear or breath properly. Her heart always raced when she saw him, once because his presence felt like home, and now because she feared for her life. "Hand me my kit before you leave, Sofia.," she asked me. I jumped up from the bed and opened up the safe, I pushed the jewelry aside (the jewels I'd hoped she'd use one day to escape from him though I doubted she ever would), and handed her the kit. She pulled it open, and used the bandages to wrap up the wrist she fractured. Fractures or broken bones meant covered clothing. Classy, they called her. As though covering the reality of her marriage was a fashion choice. Part of me wondered if it was all my fault, because every good story my mother told me about my father (hoping to redeem the monster he now was) had happened when it was just two two of them, without a baby to destroy their marriage. Whilst other broken relationships were mended by their child, I had been the start of the cracks. "Are you visiting your secret boyfriend again?" My head darted at her. She didn't even look up from her mirror, only focused on putting on her mask. "I---what?" the moment I stuttered I knew there was no choice but to come clean. "Are you mad?" "Not mad," she said and for a moment I was relieved before she opened her mouth again. "I'm disappointed." A sigh left my mouth. "I'm not disappointed about the boyfriend.," she clarified. "However, I am disappointed about your carelessness at hiding it." My brows pinched in confusion. Then she looked up. "You leave to many details---search histories, text messages, dirty clothes from climbing up the drain pipe, all evidence. And if you're going to lie, commit. Don't change the story." What story? "Last week you said you were studying with Gia, yesterday you failed the test you claimed to have studied for. You're lucky I covered for you by saying I'm getting you a tutor." She waited a beat. "Because if your father finds out, I won't just have to cover what he did to me." I gulped. The only thing I noticed was the fact that she knew it wouldn't stop with her, and that she never acknowledged it for what it was. Abuse. For her, it was her new norm, the norm of the past sixteen years. It wasn't pain, damage, or anything negative or truthful, just a *what*---just something he did. \- I didn't last long. He found out. It took me nearly a year of perfecting everything, every scheme, every lie, every excuse of hiding Dimitri from my father. And then, stupidly, I got lazy. My mother hired a maid a few months ago, and I knew she didn't like me. But I didn't think she would take it as far as to rat me out to him. Some day, my bracelet slipped off my wrist, his name engraved on the back of it. And as she was mopping she found it hidden under the coffee table. She put it on the desk in my fathers study. My face stung the day after he slapped me across the face the second I entered his study. I tried to come up with something---anything, but there was nothing I could come up with that was believable enough. My father dealt with lairs and manipulators in suits every day, there was no way I could say anything that he'd buy into. Though the slap he had given me wasn't nearly as painful as what he forced me to do after. "Are you paying attention to what I'm saying?" I let out a laugh. He blink at me. "I---yes, of course. You were talking about the second arc." I scoffed offended and laughed, "That was more than five minutes ago!" He held in a laugh. "I'm sorry, *milaya*. What were you saying?" He looked at me like he loved me. He probably did. His eyes were calm and sparkling in the moonlight that was shining through the window of his apartment. He had a lazy smile on his face, content, as he switched his gaze from my eyes to my lips again. He wants to kiss me. He always did that when he wanted to kiss me. He was waiting impatiently like a little kid in a candy store. Sometimes he waited for the right moment to catch my breath and making feel butterflies in my stomach, and sometimes---like now---I was in the middle of talking about my writing when his lips touched mine eagerly. Dimitri was needy, even though he would never admit to it. But I liked it, I liked it a lot. "He said that when I talked about writing I looked so happy it made him want to kiss me, but he'd tried to make himself wait until I'd be done talking---kissing me wasn't as good as hearing me talk about something I loved. But I didn't believe that to be true all the time, I thought sometimes he craved for my affection just a little more. He looked happy to be with me. Happy to be laying next to me in his bed. He looked happy. I wished he could know how much I loved him. How much I truly loved him. Because even though I just said I loved him, he wouldn't believe me tomorrow. "I love you too," he said. "More than you'll ever know." I smiled wide as my heart ached for him. Because he didn't know what awful thing I had done. How I'd betrayed him. How I was here, laying in his bed knowing what I had done and still having the guts to tell him I loved him. But I did. And that was the worst part. Because right now, he believed me. He knew how much I loved him, my whole being was madly in love with him but tomorrow...it'd all go to waste. It would all seem like a lie to him. He couldn't know why I did what I had done either. I could tell him, I knew that but he couldn't know. He *couldn't*. Because once he did, there'd be blood, and soulless eyes on the floor. "I love you.," I repeated, a stab tearing in my heart. "Don't ever forget that, okay? I don't care how old we get, don't forget it." *Because you will. You will for a long time.* But I didn't say that, I kept my coward mouth shut and looked at him lovingly. "*Milaya*," he said my nickname, making my heart jump. "Stop worrying about the future like you always do. My heart belongs to you, I already told you that." I gave him a weak smile. "Why are you so unsure about the future?" *Because of what had to do.* "I don't know," I shrugged. "Exactly." he replied. "It's out of your hand, my love. And if you're worried about what your dad will think of us, remember that I'm here. He'll understand my intentions with you are nothing but pure." I nodded. He wrapped his arms around my waist, sending butterflies down my stomach. "Come here." he whispered. Then, when I thought he wanted to be romantic, he started to tickle me. A loud laugh burst from my throat. "Stop! Stop! Stop!" I squirmed in his strong hold but he didn't let go, jolts send down everywhere on my body making me laugh harder almost losing my breath. And when he finally stopped, I breathed heavily and looked at him, he said, "See, there's the smile I was looking for." 1 = He's out. I nearly felt vomit rising up to my throat and tears stinging in the back of my eyes as horror crashed into me when I saw the date on my phone. February 23^rd^. He was out. He was free to roam he streets and do as he pleased whilst I was here in bed awoken from my sleep. *He won't find me...* *How long until he finds you?* *He won't find me.* I kept staring at the date, hoping that it might miraculously change, that God might spare me another day of peace but it never did. The date remained, and so did the fear. From this moment on until the day I died, I was going to have to worry about him looking for me. Or worse... *Finding me.* *"When I get out, milaya, I'll come looking for you. And when I do, you better hope I never find you."* *Stop*. A voice in my head spoke. *This is what he wants. He wants me to be scared. * I tried my best to forget it. I fought it so hard. But he's still there, lingering in the back of my mind, staring at me knowing I won't forget him. Because I never have.  "Sofia!" My papa's voice made a shiver crawl down my back as I turned my head toward the bedroom door next to me. We had people over. When papa's voice was calm, it meant there were people present to impress. He couldn't hurt me around others, he couldn't scare me. Not too much at least, not enough to make it visible. Mixed with the fear of what power today held over me, and the strange unusual calmness in my father's voice, I feel myself getting overstimulated with anxiety. I dragged my feet off my bed, checking if I looked decent before entering the living room. I supposed shorts could get him annoyed, but nothing to hurt me over, I was hoping. My eyes first fell on the broad back sitting on the couch in front of my papa, but soon I averted them to my father instead, whose eyes fell on my shorts for a second before he closed him eyes and let out a breath. *Shit*. I made a mistake. "Sofia." He opened his eyes again. "Sì, papà?" My voice was soft and calm. I didn't look at the fifty-year-old man sitting beside him, but in the corner of my eye I could tell that he is bad news. A black suit and a thick cigar between his pointer- and middle finger, sitting broad like he owned the world. "This is Marco, a business partner, introduce yourself." The air was thick and intimidating, and suddenly I couldn't wait to get back into my room until the man left. He took my hand, however instead of giving it a shake like most of them did, I felt his lips wet against the top of my hand. Disgust coursed through my veins, but I didn't react to it like I so desperately wanted to. I swallowed the feeling down, and forced a smile on my face, trying my best not to cringe in disgust.  The last thing I wanted to do is make my father angry. "Nice to meet you, young lady," he said, a dirty smirk on his face. But all it did was make me more uncomfortable, not to mention that the old man had his eyes on my breasts a few seconds too long as he was checking out my body. "Get us some whiskey, will you?" my father asked, making me slipped back my hand and formed it into a fist. I looked at my father and nodded shortly before exiting the living room. With a sigh, I opened the liquor cabinet and slid off a black-coloured glass tray, with two whiskey glasses on top. I heard my Mamma's polite greeting coming from the living room as I poured the strong liquor into the glasses. I listened as she spoke like the perfect wife she was. I hated nothing more than how my Mamma acted around others. *"Yes, darling. No, honey*" type of reactions flew out of her mouth whenever she spoke. And always with the perfect smile on her face, even when her ribs still hurt from the beatings she'd gotten prior to whatever event or visit they attended. My Mamma wanted to be a role model for me. The perfect role model being a perfect house wife. Taking care of the kids and the dog in the morning. Even though we didn't have any pets, I was sure my mother would buy one if it'd meant that people would admire my father's wife more. Because that was her title. She wasn't known by her name, Eleonora, she was called Daniel's wife. My father was determined to form his family into this perfect picture. He had made it clear over the past twenty-one years that he was ashamed to only be half Italian, rather than completely. His friends had made jokes about it before, making fun of his name and the fact that he was biracial, but they didn't anymore. My father was so obsessed with seeming fully Italian, I wasn't not even allowed to speak English with other people around. I walked back and smiled as I put down the tray. I winced, pain shooting in my back. Papa got angry a lot. Especially on the nights when he drank. "*Grazie*," my father said as he took a glass off the tray, ignoring the face he saw me making. He had never cared about what his hits do to me. "*Sei il benvenuto, papà*," I said you're welcome, and waited for his signal to allow me to go back to my room. "You're dismissed.," he nodded to which I spun around and want to bolted out of the room but I stopped myself, looking over my shoulder and saw the daggers my father was shooting. I straightened and quietly walked out of the room. The moment I was sure they couldn't see me anymore, I wanted to hurry up the stairs but of course, I couldn't catch a break. This time, it was my mother who stopped me. "Are you headed out?" I nodded. "In *that*?" I could basically taste the disapproval spitting off her tongue. She leaned on her hip and crossed her arms. "Are you wanting to come across as a single sixty year old cat lady who wouldn't know how to get a man to save her life?" A sting shooted straight through my chest. "No..." "Then change," she turned but stopped in her tracks. She turned, waving over my tights and long sweater. "Burn those. You don't need to appear even bigger." My breath hitched out of shock, but I didn't let it sting. "Yes, mother." Then she nodded. "Alright, off you go." I turned around, and with a heavy heart and far too much fear to consume, I stepped up the stairs and changed into other clothes. My mother wasn't always like this. She dressed me until I turned thirteen and I demanded doing it myself, I was sick of her dresses and wanted to wear nothing but black clothes. My father had rarily been home during this phase, but she was there, and she loathed every second of it. Cherry red pants, and a blouse, buttoned all the way up. I never liked the dark office attire (pantsuits and dresses) my mother adored. wouldn't be something I'd wear but my life wasn't mine. It hadn't been from the day I was born. My life consisted of pleasing my parents as much as I could. And it'd always be that way. They were already pissed off enough about my relationship with Will. They wouldn't ever see him. They hated him. My father cared for statements. Everywhere I went, I had to be perfect. Because my father knew; there were eyes everywhere, controlling us, spying on us, looking to find anything to scold us for. My mother, however, only cared about how I looked. She may have had somewhat of an opinion about our families image, but it never compared to how she feels about my looks. My mother had grown up poor and she'd been homeless for a little while too. It was sad, of course, but her insecurities took over her identity and she changed it for false confidence that only I could see through. I was about to leave when my body comes to a stop and my eyes drop to the black notebook tucked underneath my bed. It was almost comical how today of all days I had to notice the notebook again after such a long time. I have glanced at it before but it didn't affect me, not how much it is now...when he's free again. I dragged my eyes away from the notebook. *I shouldn't open it*, I think to myself because I know that if I do, I'll feel my heart go faster again at his memory. I'll want to write about him again and I don't want to write anymore, not about him.   I met Will in our now favourite restaurant (mostly because we met there), Big Breakfast. He was already seated when I arrived. Classic Will, always a bit early if not on time. If we'd plan to meet at 11, he'd be there at 10:55. I liked it, but sometimes it bugged me. I was not always on time and it really pissed off Will. We had gotten in arguments at times just because I was a few minutes late. "Hi, babe," I greeted him. I smiled and sat down. "You're on time, that's good," he said, his tone dry. His eyes remained on the paper in front of him. My smile faded. I was certainly not expecting that type of reaction to my presence. We hadn't seen each other in a while and so, I missed him. And I had the feeling he missed me too but now, judging by the way he didn't greet me with a smile or a kiss but with a condescending "you're on time, that's good", I didn't think he missed me as much as he claimed he did. "Yeah..." I said, nodding slowly. I started to fidget awkwardly with my fingers until he finally put his paper down. I get the fact that because Will was a few years older than me, with him being twenty five and me being twenty one, that we may had some differences. But I'd never be that indulged in a paper about whatever the government decided on this time at twenty-five years old. "Sorry, todays topic was really interesting.," he apologized and set his paper aside, right on the corner of the table. He smiled, his eyes perking up as he looked at me. "Hi. You look cute. Is that a new sweater? I like it." *No, asshole. I'd gotten it for my birthday when your mother gave it to me*. "Yeah. It's cute, right?" I smiled, hiding my aggravation. I didn't see him for weeks, I wasn't going to ruin it because he decided to be a dick. He nodded. "So, I've missed you." *Right*. "What have you been up to?" I smiled thinking about the promotion. "You're currently looking at The White Rose's new senior editor." His eyes widened in excitement. "No way. You got the promotion?!" I nodded excitedly. "That's great, baby. Congratulations." He leaned in and gave me a small peck on my lips. When he pulled back, the proud look on his face faded into an uncomfortable look and he asked the question I dreaded today, "Have you...told your parents yet?" A dark cloud immediately settled above my head, threatening to rain. *Why does he have to bring this up? Can't he just enjoy the fact that his girlfriend is a step closer to getting her dream job?* I sighed and looked down before speaking. "You know how they are, Will." "Unbelievable," he scoffed. I looked up at him with a frowning look on my face. "I mean---you have this amazing thing in your life and you can't even tell your parents." I shook my head, "It's complicated---they're...traditional, you know that." "Yeah, and it's ridiculous," he rolled his eyes. I looked at him with a *are you kidding me?* look on my face. I knew that Will didn't like my parents, and while he didn't like them, they hated him. Countless of times had I tried making them meet up and having them find something to get along but it never worked out. Most of the time they'd said no, or make up some type of excuse as to why they couldn't come or, in the almost impossible chance that they did came...they'd make it the most uncomfortable time ever. "Can we not do this right now?---" Our waiter interrupted us. "Hello. May I take your order?" "Of course, I'll have the American pancakes," Will said and looked at me. "and she'll have...the fruit salad, right?" There was a tone in his voice that I didn't like. *Right?* It reminded me of my father saying the word *right* but really in his mind the decision was already made and I better not embarrass him. "Sure," I said and forced my lips into a tight. I shifted straighter into my seat to still the hunger I felt and heard in my stomach, but instead only winced a the sharp needles in my back stabbing my bones. I knew a fruit salad wouldn't be enough with the portions they serve but, it was for the best. It'd be good to lose a few pounds and besides, I ate a late dinner last night, breaking one of my rules when it came to food. *You should enjoy food* my therapists thoughts come to mind. *Shut up, a fruit salad is enough* another voice says, louder. I shook my head subtly, trying to clear the thoughts. A fruit salad is fine, and...I liked fruit, I'd enjoy it. "You can't just say that about my parents---they're ridiculous? Really, Will?" I frowned once the waiter left.  "I'm just saying, babe." He shrugged. "You hate it there---the rules they have? They don't even allow me to spend the night, even after a year of dating. You have to admit, that's a little crazy." "Fine," I confessed. "it may be a little overboard, but I don't care. I'm almost done saving and I have the higher position now---" "That you can't even share with them." he interrupted me. I shot him a look, "---so...I'll get to buy a place quicker. I found a few cute apartments nearby, closer to you." He interrupted me. "Are you sure you don't want to reconsider my offer? It's not crazy to say yes ya' know." I nodded. "I know it isn't. But I need to live alone for at least a year before we can move in together." "Why?" he asked, clearly finding it ridiculous. "Because..." I hesitated to be honest with him. "What if we breakup? Or in the future, we divorce, or you die?" His face turned sour. Oops... "My goodness, Sofia.," he scoffed, and I could tell that he got annoyed with me when he barely lets me finish. "We've been dating for a year and you're already thinking about divorce and death? What on earth is your problem?" I was something I need to think about. I need to be prepared for everything, so that I could act based on preparedness if---God forbid---anything happens. "It's not like that---I'm sorry. But I need to be able to have lived alone at least once in my life. I need the independence." I explain. "You understand, right?" Sometimes, my relationship with Will was about guilt-tripping and manipulation. And as much as I hated it, it always happened. Saying the right words in the right tone to avoid a bigger fight or to 'compromise'. He sighed in defeat. "Yes, I understand that. I just don't like how you're already thinking about me dying when I'm only twenty-five years old." *Twenty five physically, yes* I think as I glance at the newspaper. "And I get that, and again...I'm sorry." He nodded and the conversation fell silent. I sighed silently. *I could've stayed home and finished on my novel...* I shook my head softly. No, I shouldn't think like that. Although I loved my job, I loved Will too. I hadn't seen him in weeks and I should've been lucky he had been able to make plans with me. *He was with his mother for a week, he could've brought you.* *He went to the funeral of his mothers aunt and she lives all the way in Portland.* I sigh frustrated. Great, now I was arguing with my own thoughts. I wouldn't be surprised if I was getting crazy. Pulling me out of the loop, our waiter came with the food, and my stomach gurgled again. I looked at the bowl underwhelmed. I definitely hoped they would give me a bigger serving. And I could go crazy for an omelette right now. *No. Think of all the calories, idiot.* Right. The calories, the remembrance of calories in food most of the time made the feeling of hunger go away and twist it into disgust. I looked at the fruit. *How many calories does fruit have? Do I even deserve this food?* *Maybe I shouldn't have let Will order anything at all...* I bit my lower lip, looking at the food. I prick in a grape. *Maybe I shouldn't...* *Maybe* *I shouldn't.* *I shouldn't eat.* A small pop of the now bitten through grape made the though in my head just for a quick second. But then they came flooding in again. *You're an idiot.* *You're going to be so fat if you continue like this.* *Pig.* *\ * 3 = Dimitri It was her.  The first thought that stuck to my mind the moment I stepped into the fresh air. Free air. It was strange, after five years stepping outside without a iron gate all around you. That was a lie, actually---she'd never left my mind from the moment I had met her. I once loved it, then I hated it, but now...it kept me sane. I wasn't sure why. The only logical explanation was the future, because when I thought of her, I thought of what I was going to do to the moment we reunited. And I had no one but her parents to thank for it. *Ex*-convict. I was  officially not a convict anymore.  It would take some getting used to strange, putting an *ex* to the label that was forced upon me. I didn't mind starting new chapters of my life and this surely came with great things. It was strange knowing all that was ahead of me. Because the only thing that can stop me from getting her was death, and I didn't plan on dying any time soon. I knew she knew I was coming for her, and boy, did I plan on ruining her forever. Forever. She would be mine. I'd play her like a puppet, and she'd be under my power entirely. I thought of her a lot like I had said---I still did. A lot. Hating her a lot. Day in and day out, memories of us looped in my mind like a movie playing on repeat. I could remember fellow inmates calling me "killer with kindness', messing up the sentence on purpose. My sentence was based on being an accomplice to a murder but everyone including me knew I did it. I had gotten a lot of death threats and shame from the public because they all suspected me. Rightfully so, because I had done it. I mean, of course I did. I wasn't going to be some mediocre accomplice that thought he was some tough guy helping out in a murder. "So," the officer standing next to me asked curiously. "What's the plan now that you're out?" *Kill my parents murderer.* Only, I didn't say that. Of course, guards mostly didn't ask any questions. An insult at most, but Andrew wasn't just a prison guard. He snuck his way into my sisters heart in some ridicoulus way. "What am I supposed to do?" I looked at the idiot he is. "I'm not allowed to drink or leave the state for the first six months." He laughed softly, "Yeah, I suppose you're options are incredibly limited right now." I knew he was sarcastic, he had a habit of putting up that tone with me. It made me want to cut his throat but, I couldn't let some idiot beatcop ruin a plan I'd been crafting for the last year, so, I let him off the hook. My sister and I had grown up in the big city of Moscow in Russia with both of our parents, Isabella and Alexei. We had been the most picture perfect family known to man. Never fought, at least not my parents and I. Daria, my sister, and I fought constantly. Mostly because I had never allowed her to do anything, the boys in Russia were disgusting and I had to constantly protect her naïve ass from them. Then, on a very ordinary Friday afternoon my parents had to book an emergency trip to America for business. We  weren't allowed to ask any questions but of course eventually I found out they were a connection between the Black Vipers in Russia and the Black Viper gang in America. The Black Vipers. A gang. One that had enemies left from right. They weren't big enough or powerful enough yet to be labelled as a mafia but they sure enough act like one. Apparently they'd made an enemy too many by making an enemy out of the Italian mafia and now, they were screwed. And I'd be happy to help Francesco kill them. The pilot who was ordered to fly my parents to the USA, was also ordered to kill them on their way back after delivering some information About Moscow for them. Daria and I were put into care of Layla our grandmother who lived in America. And no matter how big of a fight Daria and I put up, regardless of our grieving, we were shipped on the first plane to the US.   "Seriously, what's the plan?" Andrew asks again. I held in a smirk. The plan... The plan started a year ago when I switched bunks. I got moved from section A to B. And that was when I met Richie. He didn't have much longer left, he got out two months before I did. At first I didn't trust him. I couldn't trust anyone. Until he mentioned something in Italian on the small phone he hid behind a brick in the wall behind his bed. *Sono nella mafia, mamma. Viene sempre fornito con dei rischi.* I'm in the mafia, mom. It always comes with risks, he had said. From the moment he hung up I told him I needed a favour. I needed to get in. I needed revenge on the Black Vipers and I knew the mafia had a rivalry with the Black Vipers. He told me there was no way a Russian kid like me would get in---that I needed Italian blood. And even when I told him my mother was Italian, he made me send a hair strand to the mafia so they could test my DNA to prove I was Italian. And finally, when they looked into my reputation and DNA, I got in. They liked me, even. Claimed I had promise for their mafia---that I was a part of the family now. I ignored the family bullshit that they're were talking about, though. I didn't do sentimentality, not after her. But, of course, the assholes didn't think it was enough. I had to be *married*. Tied down to some random woman that sucked me off whenever I pleased. That's when her parents came into play the moment they heard a girl was needed as a wife. I remembered their words as if they'd said it yesterday... "Our daughter is currently dating some white moron that encourages her to work. She's twenty one once you're out, we're running out of time. And we don't want this guy for her. She needs Italian blood. Italian children. You need a wife, she needs a husband---even if she doesn't know---do we have a deal?" "Church," I lied. Although, to be fair that was what I would be doing if it weren't for the plan. "I did my sentence, now I just need to receive forgiveness." He looked at me sceptical, questioning whether or not I was serious. He had always found me strange, he was just wondering if he's lost his mind or if I really was that strange. "Hmm," he considered. I looked at him wonder if he had anything to say. My ex-brother-in-law was always on the edge of being killed. Not just by me, but by fellow- of mine too. Andrew---or rather, all guards---aren't loved in prison. I was not friends with murderers like me. I was not friends with anyone but with Richie. We understand each other, I didn't know how because he was an idiot is too cocky for his own good but, we do. It also helped that we were both hitman. But the difference between Richie and I was, he killed for the money, and I did it for the (\...). "So, how's my sister doin'?" I ask. I haven't spoken to her in years. When my sister found out that I was an 'accomplice', she cut off all ties. I'm fine with it, I can care for my sister from a distance, and for that I have Andrew. He looks at me as if he has no idea what I am talking about.  "Oh c'mon." I roll my eyes. "Don't pretend you're not doing *disgusting* things to her again." He sighs. "We're back together. But I don't think she's comfortable if I talk about her with...you." I know what he means. I know my sister misses me. A guard told me she stopped by to visit for a second time a year ago but left before I could even get out of my cell.  "What she won't know can't hurt her." I push and shoot him a look that lets him know I'm not fooling around or budging any time soon.  "She's alright, man. I suggest you stay away--" He wants to keep talking but when he sees the look on my face, he clears his throat, clearing away anything that could get him six feet under ground. "I'm just saying; she's happy. Seeing you after all these years would kill her." "Right." I say and wait a beat before I ask, "You got cigs'?"  I don't want to discuss my sister anymore. All it does is make me want to see her more. She has my respect, she wasn't the one that put me here, and she visited. She tried. I don't care that it was just once, she drove all the way over here, sat down despite all of the doubts she must've had and talked with me.  I remember that day like it was yesterday. It was the only day where I could take a breath without anger filled through my veins. We rarely said anything. A simple; *Hi, how are you?* And a *been better*. We talked about the situation quite vaguely, my sister mentioned that the house was more tensed then ever. My grandmothers had a hard time dealing with the fact that I would be gone for so long. Andrew brings me back to reality by pressing a pack of cigarettes in my hand. I take two out, one for now and one for later. I'm much of a smoker, only when I'm stressed.  "Thanks.," I says, handing the rest of the pack to him without as much as looking. He doesn't comment any further on the fact that I take more than I asked for, which takes a lot of discipline since he is much of a smoker. "How are you gonna get home?" he asks. "Do you even have a place to stay?" I look at him suspiciously. I don't know why he decides to care, I murdered--accomplished a murder nonetheless.  "I got a friend who I can stay with." I say, lighting the cigarette and take a hit. Richie is going to pick me up after the meeting and I'll stay with him for a while. "You need me to call a cab?" he asks. I sigh and shake my head. Andrew was becoming more and more annoying by the second. Acting like he cares or not. He can fall asleep just fine knowing I'm stranded somewhere, looking for a place to stay. I look up at the clouds. They gave me a phone to call with, so, I called Alberto, Francesco's driver, the moment I got out. "Do you have money to pay?" Andrew asks. He knows I don't. I was hoping he wouldn't ask so I didn't have to come up with a lie.  I sigh annoyed, put my fists in my pocket, and restrain myself from beating the shit out of him. Instead, I turn to him. "Drop the act, Andrew. I'm not a child." Andrew sighs surrendering, finally shutting up. As if God is on my side, my ride pulls up right outside of the prison.  Ignoring Andrews stare at me, expecting me to say goodbye, I immediately opened the door and get in the car to warm myself up. They gave me the clothes I came in with and it were a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. "Where to, sir?" the driver asks. I look at him through the viewfinder. "The main house."   One thing about intimidation, it always involves pride. I step in the home of Francesco Moretti, Richie's uncle and head of the mafia. Three men, one of which is Francesco, entered the entrance of the mansion. They gather next to each other in a perfect line in the middle of the two half circled stairs leading up to the second floor the house. I look at them with a stoic expression on my face, waiting for one of them to speak. "Son, welcome." Francesco steps forward. He holds a welcome, proud smile on his face. Richie described him to be tall, and skinny with a moustache, he failed to tell me that half of his face was burned. "Let's gather in my study for drinks so we can discuss business." Francesco turns and his two puppies follow him. I roll my eyes aggravated. I hate business meetings, even though my job require me to have them. A meet-up before and after the job but it doesn't make me hate them less. Francesco and I already know what we want of each other. I don't see logic behind re-discussing something we already discussed over the phone. I'm not very classy, that I'll admit, but I don't care. I don't care about appearing classy, I want to get the job done. I want to kill the Black Viper gang and move on with my life. Maybe reunite with my sister whilst I'm at it. But I doubt it. Deep down I still hold anger for her for not standing beside me better than she did. Only because I know I would've. "So," Francesco begins as I close his office door behind me. He motions for me to take a seat. "Have you handled the terms of you joining in the mafia?" I sit down, sitting broad and resting my elbows on the armrests. "Yes." my voice cold, and distant. "I already know who I'm going to marry." "You have a lady?" he asks surprised. He opens a box of cigars most likely worth more than the outfit I currently wear. He lights his cigar. "How come you've never mentioned her?" "Because she isn't my lady---" I said weary. "Look we both want the same thing. Me joining the mafia so we can take down the Black Vipers together, you've seen my report, you know what I can do. "I don't have to fall in love or have a happily ever after for us to both get what we want. I have someone I can marry within a month, whether or not that's real love, it doesn't matter. I stick by the rules of your mafia, that's what you asked of me." Francesco narrows his eyes and he sits back in his chair with his hands clasped in his lap. And then he breaks out a smile and slams a hand on the dark brown wooden desk, "I like you, Chaikovskaya," he points at me. "You're a driven kid." A bitter snarl curls in my stomach. I'm a damn kid. I am sick and tired of being treated like an infant just because I'm young---being twenty-six. "Although, I do need to know who the lady is...and we need to test her." he turns serious. "Actually, you already know her..." a slight smirk forms on my face and I begin to tell him all about the plan. About Serenity, the fake marriage, the fact that her parents practically sold her off to me without her permission. A sparkle of proudness blinks in his eyes. "Good," he merely says, shielding the happiness hiding behind his voice. "I know Rose and Daniel, of course. I'll bring them over soon and I'll ask them about the details and whatnot. Do you have a place to stay?" For a mob-boss he is awfully caring. It is disgraceful. It makes me look at him with less respect than before. If I'd be in charge, I wouldn't worry about whether or not one of my men had a place to stay because I'd hire the types of people responsible enough to take care of that by themselves. I'd be their boss, not their father. "Yes. Don't worry about me, I've got myself." I tell him and stand up. "Call me when you've settled a date for her test, and don't tell her I'm marrying her yet. It's my surprise for her." Francesco holds back a smile. "I won't say a word."