Carlotta Angela Vasiliev is a 17 year old girl living with her adoptive Russian mafia family of 4 brothers and father. Ever since she was a child, she's had no sense of belonging, abused by the Swedish mafia in her youth, her Russian saviours are th...
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Astrid sent me a text the next morning, wanting to cash in on our girls day out.
I was more than happy to accept, and we decided to go out for brunch and manicures, complemented with a side of shit talk and gossip.
I practically squealed with excitement whilst getting ready, Gigi following me around his room like a lost puppy whilst I conjured up an outfit from bits and pieces I'd left in his closet.
I managed to get a long sleep white top with a slightly plunging neckline and a pair of grey sweatpants. It was surprisingly cute, and Gigi gave me his approval when he wouldn't stop salivating at my boobs.
He called me mommy and I threatened to kick him out of his own room.
He shut his mouth after that and followed me into the bathroom, where I sat cross-legged on the counter applying some of my makeup to my face.
Gigi sat on the edge of the tub and watched me through the mirror, his eyes transfixed on my every move.
I knew he was sulking about me hanging out with someone else for the day, but considering it was Astrid he didn't mind as much.
"Don't you have, you know, mafia shit to do?" I scoff at him, glancing back at him through the mirror where he's watching me.
He levels me a look with his green eyes, a dark eyebrow quirking up, "I'm not the boss for nothing, αγάπη μου."
(my love)
I quirk my own brow back at him and his lips lift in amusement, "Doesn't mean you don't have responsibilities. How are you going to gain your mafia's respect if you don't put in the work?" I tease, knowing he does more than necessary for the mafia.
"Ok, smartass." He huffs, "But to answer your question, fear. It's a powerful source of respect." He shrugs.
That was fair enough to be honest. At the end of the day, this is a mafia, not an NGO.
I finish up my final swipe of mascara and twist the lid back on, smiling at myself in the mirror, nose scrunching up as I examine my work.
Satisfied, I dropped the mascara back into my bag and made a move to hop off the counter, but when I turned I realised Gigi had stood up and made his way to the counter. He stood directly behind me, still a little taller despite me sitting on the countertop.
"My turn." He says softly, reaching behind me, and grabbing my black eyeliner, holding it up between us.
He smirks down at me when he sees my delighted face and I snatch the eyeliner out of his hand, sitting up a little taller so I'm level with Gigi's face.
He leans forward to accommodate me further and I hold him by the side of his head. He leans into my touch and I begin my work on his eyeliner, tongue sticking out slightly in concentration.
