We're All Heathens Here - A Mafia Story {Ongoing}

The Headquarters

Pic of Roberto (you'll find out later 😉)

The limo eventually turned into the driveway of a luxurious yellow and red mansion. It was very Italian and I could tell immediately that we were at the Italian Mafia's headquarters. We drove up to the gate and everyone presented their fingerprint, except me.

"We'll get your fingerprint, and voice into the system soon," Matteo assured me, "When we get inside, there's going to be a lot of men," I nodded,

"I'm used to that," I thought,

"Stay with Garcia," he instructed, "She'll show you the basic outline of the house, it's easy once you get used to it,"

I hadn't even noticed that we had pulled up to the house and Garcia and Alice were getting out. I quickly stumbled out into the sunshine and examined my surroundings. The driveway was circular with a large stone fountain in the middle of the circle. Roses of every colour were planted around the large yard.

"Roses are our family emblem," Matteo explained, watching me survey the flowers, "Mother loves them," he passed me my bag and I followed him and Garcia inside.

The inside was even grander than the outside. The walls and ceilings were white and the marble floor shone. I could hear voices bouncing off the high ceilings. I continued to walk through the house, not letting Garcia get too far ahead. Matteo went off almost immediately to talk to someone and Garcia continued to stroll past the large group of people toward the staircase in the middle of the room.

"Don't stare, Roberto," Garcia sighed as she started to climb the staircase, "It's rude," I looked back to see half the room staring, but most noticeably a young man with black hair and grey-blue eyes was staring hard at me. Garcia rolled her eyes when she saw that the man, Roberto, was still staring. "Excuse my brother," Garcia sighed, "We don't have many women here," I nodded in understanding.

We continued to climb until we were on the third floor. There Garcia stepped off the staircase and started to walk toward a nearby door. "Your room," she opened the door and I stepped in.

The room was fantastic! It was a lot larger than my one in the Russian mansion. The walls were painted a pearl white with an emerald green accent wall against which a large four-poster bed sat. A TV sat opposite the bed placed on a fireplace. On the wall opposite the door was a large desk in front of a window that viewed the backyard. The fourth wall, the one with the door on it, was made up of paintings and another door that Garcia said led through to a bathroom and closet.

"Get unpacked and then come downstairs," she told me, "This floor only has women on it so you should be fine to change," she smiled sweetly and for a second she reminded me of Alina and a wave of sadness washed over me. I shook it off as Garcia left the room. I quickly went into the closet and saw that there was already a lot of clothes there. I unpacked my 5 outfits and then went through to the reasonably sized bathroom. It held a bath, shower, toilet and sink. Nothing special, just enough to survive. Though the bath was nearly as big as a bed and it had water jets on every side.

When I finished admiring my new room I stepped outside, making sure my phone was in my pocket and then heading down the stairs. I was halfway down the second flight of stairs when Roberto ran into me, "Sorry," he said, his Italian accent coming on thick, he looked up and seemed to go red, "Forgive me," he smiled, "Sei così bello (you are so beautiful)," a reply came through the translator and I smirked,

"Non troppo male tu stesso (not too bad yourself)," I told him,

"I didn't know you spoke Italian," he smiled wider,

"Only a little bit," I shrugged, "My mother taught me when I was young but I only remember a few words,"

"My mother taught me as well," he smiled even wider if it was possible. We stood in silence for a second. I stared into his eyes, trying to get a hint of any emotion but there was nothing there, it was masked. He was part of the mafia and had obviously learnt to his emotions. He studied my face as if trying to etch it into his memory.