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The mother crawled to her son and wrapped him protectively in her arms while he stared at me with brown eyes that sparkled under the dim moonlight. I imagined if that was what a mother’s love felt like. Protective. Sacrificial. “Who are you? What do you want from us?” Her voice was shaky, and her hands vibrated as she clutched her son, glaring sharp claws at me like a mama bear, ready to tear anyone who tried to harm her baby into a million pieces. Too bad she wasn’t actually a bear, and the guns pointed at her would do far more damage than a bear’s claws ever could. And quicker too.
I wanted to do my usual thing; pronounce their time of death and leave the rest to my father’s men, but one glance at the duo—the innocence in the boy’s eyes as he probably didn’t even know he was about to die, the genuine fear and sadness in the mother’s eyes as tears sheeted down their face—she must’ve not even known her husband was dead.
Air stalled in my lungs, making it hard for me to breathe. I hate this, I fucking hate it. “I am sorry…” I hesitated. “Goodbye.” That was all I was able to say before turning my back on them. My father’s men cocked their guns.
“Please, don’t do this.” Her plea came out like a desperate cry. “You can kill me, just let my son go. Please, I’m begging you.”
My head began to spin, and the image of all the men I’d seen die flashed before my eyes. All had been the type of men I despised, none had been a child or an innocent woman. I couldn’t take it. The mere thought of seeing Aleksandr’s body among them made me sick.
He didn’t deserve it.
He doesn’t deserve to die.
I held my stomach and swiveled to them. “Don’t shoot!” Panic crept from my stomach and into my throat. “Don’t fucking shoot.”
Confusion covered the men’s faces like a Halloween makeover. They must’ve thought I was crazy or something. “I’ll shoot you if you fucking shoot.” I couldn’t hold it anymore. The disgust I’d always felt for myself, the passionate loathing I’d had for my papa since I was old enough to loathe someone, rushed to my throat, causing the muscles in my esophagus to contract as I bent over to let it all out.
The last time I puked on a job was when I watched someone die for the first time, eleven years ago. It had been on my tenth birthday. My papa had forced me to watch as he ripped out a man’s throat—when I got scared and looked away, he made me sleep in a pool outside for the first time. I couldn’t remember what happened next, but I woke up in the hospital three days later to his frown towering above me as he called me, “Debole.” Weak.
One of my father’s men, Enzo, covered with muscles that were too big for his body and a beard that was long enough to be braided, still had his gun pointed at the mother and son. My senses departed me, and my body had a mind of its own. I walked to him and grabbed his gun. “Shoot at them and you’re dead.”
Enzo scoffed. “What the fuck are you doing, bitch?”
I raised his gun at him. “Call me a bitch one more time and that will be the last word you say.”
There was reluctance in his eyes for a while. “I don’t work for you, ragazzina. I work for your father.” He stared down at the gun. “
“My words stand in my father’s absence.” I cocked the gun. “You think I won’t kill you? Try me.”
Enzo and I fixed our eyes viciously on each other for the next five minutes. He scoffed, “I am only letting this go because of your papa.” He nodded to the other men, and they retreated to the car.
“Leave this city, and never come back,” I said to the mother without bearing my gaze on her.
“Thank you,” she muttered with a tearful voice. “Thank you.”
I did not reply because there was nothing to say. I had to think of other things, like the excuse I’d give my father for going against his orders. And my hair…fuck, I wondered how he’d react to it. Seeing how much he had always been obsessed with my hair, I was certain he’d mourn it more than he’d mourn me if perchance I died while trying to kill Andrei.
Two hours later, the car pulled over in front of the old Paolo manor that looked more like a haunted castle than it looked like a mansion. It was a tall black building with ancient dark pillars and old limestone walls. It was chilly, although it was summer, and smelt like freshly cut grass and wet sand.
Despite the fact that I’ve lived here since I was a kid, the view of this house crawled underneath my skin like bloodworms, giving me chills, as if the ghost of all the souls we’d murdered will escape purgatory and come to hunt us at night. I rushed inside because I hated the eerie feeling I got outside.
Animalistic moans came from inside the mansion as I climbed the stairs and reached the foyer. I knew what those moans were and who they were from, I’d grown accustomed to that disgusting sound since I was old enough to know what disgusting was.
I knocked lightly on the door to notify them of my presence before twisting the silver handle and letting myself inside the equally dark interior that was barely lit by a hearth. Black men’s shoes, a black three-piece suit, a red heel, and a black dress drew a map on the floor, leading me to the living room where a woman was riding my papa like her life depended on it, moaning in a way that made vomit climb up my throat again—she was the fifth woman riding my papa this week, and it was only Wednesday.
“Papa.”
She stopped riding him and looked at me with eyes that glittered in the hearth-lit living room. I glanced at the light switch across the room from me. I should’ve turned it on, but seeing my father’s cock was not something that interested me; it would just make me vomit, and I’d had enough vomiting for one night.
My papa pushed the woman away from his body and quickly reached for his robe on the floor. At least he had a bit of shame left. The same could not be said for the woman that was riding him as she held a seductive smile at me, making her large breasts bounce as she picked her clothes up from the floor. I was certain she did it intentionally.
She paused when she reached me, made her smile even broader, and gave me an I’d-like-to-fuck-you wink before departing the room.
I finally turned on the light when I was certain my papa had clothed himself.
He grabbed a bottle of liquor and poured himself a drink, then sat on the chair that had surely seen more naked women on it than a male porn star’s dick.
“Come here, child,” my papa said, his voice calm yet terrifying. My papa was the human representation of a slow poison. He spoke so calmly that you never knew whether he was pleased or upset.
