Secrets Leave Scars [EDITING]

15 - Birth Right

I search the back of the truck for any first aid supplies. The cut on my hand had become more of a slash because of all the fighting. I need something to control the bleeding.

"What are you looking for?" Kol asks me.

"First aid." He looks bad at me somewhat confused, before taking out a first aid kit.

"Here," he says, offering it to me. I open the kit and take out some white, tape-like material. Anything is better than nothing. I wrap it tightly around my hand, wincing as it touches the injury. "How did you even get that?"

"Stupid guy had a knife," I say, putting away the materials.

"Didn't you have a gun though?"

"I couldn't get it out in time," I reply quickly. He nods, but doesn't seem convinced. I rest my head against the truck, attempting to distract myself from the pain I would endure for the remaining ride home.

***

When we arrive at headquarters, I walk straight to the medical center. It looks the same as it did the first time I was here. The beds are made and the walls are dusty. I walk towards the medicine cabinet, searching for any pain killers.

"Hey," Marcus grunts, while entering the room. I look back at him and nod, silently praying he'll leave. "Let me see your hand," he says.

Reluctantly, I place my hand out in front of him. He leads me to one of the hospital beds and motions for me to sit. I sit and watch as he gently removes the material I covered it with before, and looks at the wound.

"You must enjoy getting stitches Pierce," he chuckles. 

"Something like that," I laugh lightly. He reaches for a suture kit and carefully selects the correct materials. I watch as he studies my hand and intricately weaves the needle through my rough skin. I bite my inner cheek, holding in any cries of pain.

"I get it... you know," Marcus breaks the silence suddenly. My gaze leaves my hand and lands on his face. His eyebrows furrow as he focuses on the stitches. He bites his lower lip in concentration. 

"What do you mean?" I question him. 

He clears his throat before responding. "You can't kill," he states plainly. I feel my muscles tense. 

"I can I just-"

"Lying isn't going to solve the problem," he interrupts me. I sit in silence as he continues weaving the needle through my skin. His eyes remain focused on stitching, whereas mine remain focused on him. "I was thirteen when I killed someone for the first time." My eyes widen in surprise. 

"Thirteen?" His eyes flicker towards mine for a moment as he responds. 

"That's considered late for people born into the mafia." His voice is quieter now, as if he's ashamed. "My parents had my sister first but once they had me, the responsibility to be the Steele family heir, was passed down. The first born son always gets it. I was taught how to kill the minute I could carry a gun...but I could never follow through with it." 

I sit in shock as the words leave his lips. The great Marcus Steele wasn't able to pull the trigger? 

"So how'd you get over it?" I pry. He clears his throat uncomfortably.

"My dad brought me into one of the interrogation rooms and forced me to watch as he beat a man. He placed a gun in my hand and told me the man tried to kill our family. Told me the only way to protect our family was to kill him. I wanted to prove myself and protect my family, but I still couldn't do it so... He used my finger to pull the trigger..." his voice trails off. "When I got older I found out the man was innocent. He wasn't even apart of any mafia, just a random man my father took from the streets in order to teach me some kind of sick lesson." 

"W-Wow," I stutter. "That's.... traumatic..."

"Yeah.." he clears his throat again, "Anyways, I hate to be the one to tell you this... but you're gonna have to get over it." A small pit grows in my stomach as I process his words. "You're already at a disadvantage since you weren't born into this, but if you can't kill... you won't make it out alive."

I gulp nervously. "I'll be fine."

"We're working with ruthless criminals, you need to kill in order to survive in this life. It's not a suggestion." 

"I'll be fine," I repeat myself. He looks up from my hand and looks into my eyes.

"Why would you choose this life?" He asks, sighing. "You see these other recruits? Look at Axel or Trinity, they don't want to be here, they don't want to murder or torture, but they don't have a choice. And you-you have a choice. You're a good person, you don't belong in this world or life so tell me why would you choose this?"

I stare back at him, speechless. I see the pain hidden in his dark eyes. He was hurting. "You don't know that," I reply softly. 

"Know what?"

"That I'm a good person," I continue. "You don't know that I'm a good person."

He breaks our strong eye contact and looks back down at my hand. "I do," he says plainly, slowly picking up the suture again. A rush of pain stems from my hand as he continues stitching. I wince as he yanks my skin back together. 

"I don't have anything else," I say, distracting myself from the pain. "I chose this life because I need a purpose." My heart aches as I speak, knowing this isn't an act anymore. "And anyways," I continue, "Everyone has a choice."

"I don't," he replies. He secures the final stitch in my hand before cleaning up the area. 

"What do you mean?" I ask. He carefully holds my wrist, gently moving the old bandage across the injury. His touch is soft and delicate. 

"I did not choose to be the leader of this mafia, I did not choose to be a criminal, I did not choose any part of this life. It's not a choice," he grunts. He releases my hand and gets up, walking towards the door to leave. While glancing over his shoulder, he continues, "It's my birth right."