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The following days are a blur as I cope and process everything. Imagining one day all of this will be over, I'll go back to my normal life and Ruby won't be there... that life just doesn't sound normal to me.
My life won't ever be normal again. Getting tangled with the mafia left its permanent scar. One that'll never heal entirely. Unlike the bullet wound on my arm that doesn't hurt anymore, with a small scar left as its reminder.
The only person who ever cared about me after Mom is now gone for good. Because of me.
If we hadn't been friends, she would've been alive. I can't imagine what her family's going through.
Despite the pain and grief, all the suffering in my life trained my brain not to dwell on painful things. My brain's survival mechanism kicked in on the third day.
I'm a survivor, a fighter. I will fucking fight.
The men, from the associates, the soldiers, to the ones on the top of the hierarchy, they'll all pay for messing with me, turning my life upside down, and killing my only friend.
It won't bring Ruby back, but I'll give her the justice she deserves. Be it from all the wrong, illegal ways. I'll make them regret turning me into a goddamn bait for seven-eight mafias.
Marco's been a sweetheart, spending the bigger part of his days with me. On the fifth day, I told Marco about my plan and for the following five days we plotted together.
During these past ten days, Elio stayed away from me.
Yes, I said I don't want to see him, and I really didn't. For fuck's sake, if the asshole wasn't so fixed on figuring out everything before anything else, maybe these deaths could've been avoided.
Yet, it'd be a lie if I say I wasn't expecting him to show up... like, just once.
But he didn't... and now I'm pissed.
Not at him. At myself.
Mortifyingly I'm sad and disappointed he didn't even once come; it makes no sense, hence I'm annoyed.
A girl should know what she wants. I didn't want to see him, I wanted space... he respected my wishes—for the first fucking time!—but now I'm sad that he did... and I maybe kinda sorta miss him. Oh my God, what is wrong with me!
I groan and shove my fingers through my hair.
I'm a mess.
For the last three days, I've been itching to go to him, but I lacked the courage and it felt like kicking my pride in the gut, so I stayed put.
Today, I'm going to him, since apparently, the bastard is planning on avoiding me until I make the first move. At least, I have a solid plan—as an excuse—at my disposal to disclose it with him, to ruin the Russian mafias.
