Elodie Hart;
"Tasting her is like heaven. But Harlow isn't heaven. Nor is she hell; Harlow is the f*cking devil herself, with her sharp intimidation and her cruel way of things, but she tastes nothing like it. She tastes of sweetness and determinati...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Harlow." I try the name out and it rolls off my tongue pretty well. It's a pretty name, I have to say. But I knock that thought out of my head and focus. "Can I ask another question?" Or a million of them. There are still so many questions left unanswered.
"Go ahead, before I need to head to my office," Harlow responds, getting off the bed and walking back to the chair she was sitting on before, while I peel myself off the mattress and sit up on the bed. Wait, office?
"What are all the guards and maids for, this big massive house, the twenty-odd expensive cars in the front, huge security gates and all of that for?" She nods at my question, an expression placed on her face, which I can't quite put a word to.
"Was it not obvious already? This is the Mafia, Elodie." My face suddenly drops, and I sit up properly, staring at her with wide eyes. The Mafia? She's kidding, right? What on earth is she talking about?
"You're joking," I tell her. It's unbelievable that something like this would be true. There is no way I have been brought into the mafia by this woman. I didn't even think that was real. Who would have?
"Do I look like the kind of person to joke around with you?" She asks me, and with pure honesty, I realise that no, no she doesn't look like the kind of person to joke around with me, but I don't know anything about her, other than her name and that she's in a mafia. Apparently. So how am I supposed to know whether she's humorous or lives her life in sadness?
"What does that make you then? What part in this 'mafia' do you have?" I question. Harlow chuckles and leans her back against the door, taking a small pack of something out from her back pocket.
Cigarettes. She brings out a single one from the pack, popping it in her mouth and stuffing the pack away, taking out a lighter. She lights her cigarette and then blows the smoke out of her mouth. The smoke gets far enough to hit my nose, and I inhale the smell, scrunching at the distaste.
"I'm the boss, darling. The boss of the Spanish Mafia. Everyone in this house is part of the Mafia, they work for me. I own everyone here."
"Everyone in this household, the guards the maids, the people in the rooms- everyone?" I ask to make sure I'm hearing her right. She nods, inhaling the smoke from the cigarette again.
"This isn't it, there is more. Scattered around Spain, some in different places around the world. They all work for me, I have a pretty big responsibility, taking care of these people and all." She carries on telling me about the situation while smoking her cigarette. Which by the way, is a little rude when she's blowing smoke in my direction.
"So, you control everyone in this place?" The questions I have are endless, I don't think I could ever stop asking them. But I'm taking advantage of her whilst she's here.
"Yes, Elodie, including you, now." Her expression is emotionless as she focuses on her cigarette, rather than what I'm saying. Who does she think she is? She does not own me.
