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I was born into the Nordic Mafia on a cold winter night, so cold that some say it was why my mother died in childbirth. My father was never the same after that. I’m all he has left of her and I’m his greatest pride, his greatest joy which explains why he’s kept me even more protected than most young girls in the mob.
At the age of eighteen, I’ve never been kissed, never even been hugged by a man in the way a man hugs a woman. And the man who was supposed to be the one who would kiss and hug and give me babies is now already on his way to the afterlife.
I should be sad but I don’t shed a tear. Nobody finds it suspicious. They take it is a sign that my heart is hard and resilient; traits that they admire.
Everyone I know don’t just love violence, they crave it. They use it without blinking, without giving it a second thought especially if any of the women need to be protected.
Even I know how to defend myself better than most streetfighters. I know how to use a butterfly knife, what point to press on someone’s throat to make them go unconscious.
Luckily I’ve never had to fight a day in my life since I’m constantly surrounded by rough and gruff mobsters, but I’m supposed to rejoice in it.
I was meant to be fearless and warrior like.
Instead, I’m a wallflower.
Guess the old gods didn’t get the mixture right when they made me. They must’ve messed up the recipe, added a pinch too much of something or a pinch too little.
Patiently listening to the funeral song that’s being played, I wrap my coat tighter around me. My coat is black but then again I’m always in black. I hate black. I love colors, especially pastels, the pretty ones, the one that make a girl feel like she’s something special.
But the muted colors are required of me. It’s because I’m young and still unmarried. It’s for my own good I’m told, good for me to be unnoticeable. I swear I could walk up on a stage, jump up and down and wave with my hands and people still wouldn’t pay any attention to me.
Nobody ever sees me.
Except him.
He watches. He guards. He studies. His eyes are on me all the time. I feel them like fingertips tracing over my skin but whenever I turn to look, he averts his gaze. I don’t like it when he looks away because I like his eyes on me. They make my heart go fast and I get a sweet taste in my mouth as if my lips are ready for a kiss.
“Go ahead,” my father says and I realize the music’s stopped. “Give him a kiss.”
I freeze up and my skin crawls. Its custom to give the dead a kiss but I can’t kiss those grey lips. His eyes are shut, his face still as unappealing to me now as it was when he was alive. I try not to squirm, or burst into tears. Or run back home.
My father gives me a nudge. “What are you waiting for?”
“Fádir...,” I croak, my voice getting stuck in my throat and I clench my fists in the pockets of my coat. I take a deep breath, trying to ignore that I feel like I’m about to faint. I lower my face, inching closer and closer to my dead fiancé when a voice, sharp as an icepick cuts through the wind.
“Dolph Frey, don’t make your daughter do it. She’s heartbroken, grieving...a kiss could break her.”
I’m so on edge, my heart’s palpitating in my chest when my father snarls between his teeth.
“Know your place.”
Iversen Nox makes his way through the crowd and my eyes nearly roll back in my head. He’s in his mid-twenties, stronger than most and vicious. His height’s towering, his hair as pale as his skin, as pale as his eyes and when he speaks his voice rumbles and commands.
He’s just a soldier. A mere soldier in the mob. But everything about him screams that he’s not supposed to be. He’s supposed to be more.
“We need to put the boat into the water,” Iversen says, defying my father and he’s got some guts. He glances at me, quickly and barely at all before him and three other soldiers light the boat on fire and push it into the sea. Their muscles splay under their skin and they’re all very burly but Iversen’s strength has nothing to do with his physique.
It’s his heart. And it’s an arctic one, strong as a diamond and I wonder what it would feel like in my hands.
I stare as the boat commotions over the waves and it’s starting to look like a bonfire. This is illegal. If law enforcement knew about this, they’d probably throw a hissy fit but we don’t really get involved with the law. They sort of just stay away, respecting us and above all fearing us.
My eyes follow the boat and the reality of it all dawns on me. My fiancé is dead. They say it was an accident. But I think he was murdered.
Iversen’s eyes meet mine and I hide a gasp. They cut through like a blade but it doesn’t hurt. It feels good. I try not to stare at his chest and his arms. He’s bare-chested, save from the fur of a polar bear that’s flung over his shoulders. How isn’t he cold? I’d be cold if the breeze kept lashing against my six-pack and my pecs.
He has a tattoo on the side of his torso but all men in the mob are tattooed with runes. Iversen though, only has one. A soldier is only allowed to have one. If he decided to start inking away it would be considered a grave offence.
An offence grave enough to get you killed.
