A Flower Between the Thorns: A Mafia Romance [REWRITING]

Prologue

Fillip's POV:
6 years ago.

Bang.

And there he was, the last one of them, dead. His blood smelled of iron and rust as it splashed all over me when the bullet hit his head. Wide-eyed, he fell back off his chair. I felt no remorse. They killed my wife; they paid.

"Christian," I shouted, beckoning my friend and future second-in-command.

"Take him out and all the dead bodies. Burn them. Bury them deep in the woods, where no one will find them. Take them out." He nodded firmly, walking towards the don's dead body. Now, New York belongs to me.

"This is our new home, Christian. It's our turn to take charge," I said. All he did was smile—a big, proud one. Then he took the body, leaving the room. I was left alone again.

Whatever was leftover from the blood and the organs left a very familiar smell, and a not-so-welcome feeling tugged at my chest. I fell to my knees, and before I knew it, I was crying. When I hadn't shed a tear for my wife when she died, I felt like I had betrayed her, but now all I could do was sob, thinking of nothing but her.

"I did it, Marie. I killed them all. You can rest now, and I will keep her safe."

Fleur's POV:

We were sitting peacefully, like every other day. I braided my little sister's hair while Dad read a book by the window. I was 22 by that time; maybe 23? It's been so long since it all happened. Suddenly, an intruder barged into our home and snatched Emma away from me, along with my father and my life.

They held my father to the ground, yelling for their money. We always had to give them money—lots of it.

I hated that Dad lied to us. He'd said that we were here in our cabin in the woods for a vacation. He told us we had paid them everything for the last three months and that they had nothing on us. Little did me and Emma know he was lying. And it ruined our lives.

They held me and Emma as they beat up our father. "Please let him go. He's old. Please let him go," I pleaded, but they listened to nothing.

"Please. I will do anything. Just let them go, please." I continued to beg while my innocent 16-year-old sister cried.

The man holding my father looked at me, so I stopped struggling and stared back at him. Slowly, a smirk crept its way to his face as he let Father go, getting up from above him.

As he walked towards me, I understood the weight of the words I had just blurted out. "You'd do anything, darling?" He spoke in accented English. If I were in any other situation, I might have thought he was good-looking.

Hesitantly, I nodded, and that was all it took for a big smile to crack on his face. "Take her to my car," he ordered the man who was gripping me. My eyes widened as I realized what was happening. "No, no, no," I tried to yell, but it came out in a whisper.

Soon, I got dragged outside the comfort and warmth of our cabin into the breezing wind of a November day.

Two gunshots broke through the whistling wind as the man dragged me outside. The rustling of the trees filled the air as birds flew, startled, off their branches. I could see the blood splattering on the dirty, stained windows when the gunshots rang through the deserted area we stood in. With them, my heart broke.

"NOO!" I struggled against the man's hands, trying to go back inside, but I was unsuccessful as he held me in place. Then he dragged me into the car and bound me to this awful life forever.

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Muffled voices came from outside that depressing room. It woke me up; it is not like I find peace when I sleep in this awful, freezing, dirty room, so I was thankful.

I heard Alberto. His cold voice is one I'd know anywhere. After all, he had dragged me around houses and families for years, and when they always returned me to him, let's just say it wasn't the prettiest of events.

"Get her ready in less than 20 minutes. I want her to look acceptable." I could practically see his disgusted eyes piercing through the door while he said those words. "If she even can be."

"Yes, boss," an unfamiliar voice answered back, and I figured it was someone new in this hellhole.

The door opened with a thud, and I slightly jumped on my bed. It wasn't a bed. It was rough, scratchy, and uncomfortable. How long have people been sleeping on this mattress—a hundred years, maybe? It was as stiff as a rock, and it was backbreaking.

As I thought, this was indeed a new man. The moment he came close to me, I slapped him on the face, making him take a few steps backwards. He looked at me with wide eyes; maybe no one warned him about me.

He stopped for a second, and silence lingered between us.

"What the fuck?" He seethed as he practically jumped on me, pulling me by my arms. That didn't mean I made it easy; I made it hell. I made sure it was known that no one was to touch me—at least not without me fighting back.

I fought him, pulling, scratching, and hitting. I didn't stop until there was another thud from the door. We both stopped fighting each other and looked in its direction. Alberto was striding toward us. I was held by my arms when he slapped me across the face and sent me flying down to the floor. Quickly kneeling in front of me, he held my face in his hands.

"Look here, stupid bitch, try one more of your childish stunts, and it's not a house I'd be sending you to." His fingers gripped my face even harder. Which made tears sting my eyes as they threatened to come out. He continued, "I'll leave you be; maybe that will be the last time I have you here, but if you are not ready within the next 15 minutes, out of these dirty clothes, I won't be so considerate then." Pushing my head away, he looked me up and down before leaving with his man.

I got up quickly and entered the adjoining bathroom to my awful bedroom. It wasn't different from my bedroom. Old and dirty, with a standing shower that only had cold water. I finished showering, dried myself, and got ready in ten minutes. I was fast. Maybe I am as desperate to get out of here as Alberto is to get rid of me, even if just for a few weeks.

When I walked out of my room, the same man who tried to get a hold of me was standing there waiting. He looked me up and down and gave me a dirty look. I scowled up at him. He took me by the hand and led me to a truck with all the women who were to be 'distributed', as Alberto liked to call it.

I sat beside a friend of mine, Sally. One of the few people I didn't feel like jumping out of the car when I sat next to. She was kind, unlike many other women in her profession.

I sat while Sally started talking about the last man she made love to. I zoned out completely, and I thought, "Will I ever see her again? Will this finally be my last time? Will I ever escape?"