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The silence stretched out, and the longer it persisted, the more uncomfortable I felt.
I’d heard enough whispers and rumors about what type of man Matteo was.
Thief. Murderer. Drug and crime lord. The list went on and on.
Just do it. Say it.
“Isn’t there something I can do to make things right? Some agreement we can come to terms with?”
In the back of my mind, I asked myself why I gave two shits about what happened to Derek and Logan Johnson. It was true they’d never done anything to make my life easier. Had there been wonderful memories of my father and brother? Maybe? If I had them, they were few and far between that they almost seemed like fever dreams, things I’d made up to hide the ugliness of how my childhood and life had been.
I couldn’t even remember a time before I was five years old. It was like I’d woken up one day that age, thrust into that shitty world where I was looking up at my father and brother as they shared a needle and shot up.
“Something to make things right?” Matteo said in a bored tone.
I felt a stray tear slip down my cheek and realized I couldn’t do this. No amount of helping them would change my future. It wouldn’t help the outlook of how things would play out.
I made myself think about all the times they’d let me down.
When I was seven, my father dislocated my shoulder because he grabbed me too tightly in a drug-induced rage when he thought I was an intruder. Or when I was ten years old and my brother made me buy his drugs from the corner in the middle of the night because he was too much of a coward, fearing the dealer he owed money to would spot him.
I was pissed that I didn’t let myself think of all the things they’d done to me over the years, refusing to let that darkness seep in deep because I still held on to the hope that family was family and that one day things would get better.
But after failed rehab attempts, I knew my “family” only cared about one thing, and that was what benefited them.
“Family doesn't even mean anything,” I whispered.
I’d been nearly stabbed, bruised and burned, and verbally and mentally abused by the people who should have loved me and cared for me. They only loved me when it suited them, when they needed to use me for something.
I would be better off if they were dead.
“Would you like me to make that possible?” Matteo’s voice was deep but smooth, like black silk.
I snapped myself out of my thoughts and felt my eyes widen. “W-What?” I’d heard him clear as day, but surely, he didn’t mean what I thought he did?
“I can make your brother and father’s debt go away with a flick of my fingers.” He snapped them as if that proved his point.
I shook my head. I was ashamed to let the idea of them gone for good from my life play through my head.
“Just think,” Matteo said, low and soft. “They’ve held you back your entire life. You haven’t been able to leave this shithole of a city because there's always something happening, isn’t that right?”
I licked my lips but didn’t answer. He was right. God… he was right. He’d already said he knew things about me. Probably all things, if I was honest with myself.
Never enough money. Working overtime just to survive with the bare minimum. My brother or father being sick and the humane part of me feeling an obligation to care for them.
It was always fucking something.
“This is crazy,” I whispered. I knew what he was saying. He'd kill them for me, bury their bodies in unmarked graves where no one would ever find them. “Why would you do that for me?”
This made no sense.
Matteo could kill them–probably would–without a second thought. What did it matter whatIwanted?
He was silent for a long moment before chuckling humorlessly. “Maybe you have something I want.”
Something I want.
This man could have anything and anyone he wanted. All he’d have to do was say the words. I was no one. Nothing. I was penniless and plain and came from a broken background.
