"𝑨𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒈𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝑰 𝒇𝒖𝒄𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐?"
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⚠️sᴛɪʟʟ ᴇᴅɪᴛɪɴɢ⚠️
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Haunted by the night when me and my mother were forced away from our daily lives in Mexico...
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I'm not saying I'm surprised, but my eyebrows just hit my hairline. His audacity to ask me that question, fully aware of what drove me back to "being a maid," reminded me of a quote I'd come across a decade ago:
"Life comes at you hard and fast; it doesn't slow for anybody." – Skyla Madi.
The room fell silent, some anticipating my response, while others—Marco, Ettore, and Simone—seemed as taken aback as I was. I let the question hang in the air, glancing down at the man being dragged out of the room, brushing the blood from my clothes with a grimace. Not exactly my ideal fashion statement. I wasn't stalling, nor was I trying to shed light on the absurdity of his question; I was simply at a loss for words.
How do you answer the one person who, of all people, should know the story best—not from rumors or whispers but from being part of it since the very beginning?
I can only find it humorous.
I scoff, rolling my eyes as a small giggle escapes me. "I mean, I had my reasons."
"Is that so?" Aldo replies, still indifferent, cigarette in hand. "I have a hunch as to what they are."
The urge to land a punch squarely on that face of his starts bubbling up. He locks eyes with me and immediately puts out his cigarette. "Of-fucking-course I wasn't asking about your reasons, Clar. I wanted to know why you'd go back to serving these pigs instead of, you know, living off me."
I scrunch my eyebrows, surprise evident on my face. "Are you actually hearing the words coming out of your mouth right now?"
I gasp, laughing again. I turn my back, placing my hands on my head, then turn to look at him again, squinting as I applaud. "Wow, Aldo, just wow."
"Okay, guys," Simone begins, retreat lacing his words. "How about we leave and let them talk?"
The men around the table, except for Marco, all get up and start exiting the room. Ettore halts, looking back at Marco. With a huff, he grabs him by the collar of his polo shirt and tries to pull him out.
"Fuck no, let me stay so I can kill him if he crosses any more lines," Marco tears himself away from Ettore's grip, landing back in his chair with a bit of a spring. "Plus, it'd bring me absolute pleasure to watch Clar slap him with the truth. Motherfucking crybaby."
Aldo draws his gun from his holster in an instant, anger faintly tugging at his features, and points it at Marco. He doesn't wait either. Marco jumps forward, his chair flying back and crashing against the wall as he mirrors Aldo's actions, pointing his gun right back at him. Both of them are now in attack mode.
