Misfortunate Ties

1 | One

All that I've got, pieces and pages
Talking a lot, sorry I'm faded

-SZA

Ginevra Vitale

I hated him. I hated him so much that sometime's hate wasn't enough to describe how much I loathed him. Blood boiling, temper raising, scrutinizing piece of shit he was. I've got it—Abhor! I abhorred the likes of him!

The Greeks, also known as the infamous Stavros Family. They took that throne, that label, that rank of first place. It wasn't even their family or business that irked me, it was their fucking eldest son.

Ares Stavros.

Being birthed and raised into these kinds of families would seem almost unreal to anyone else. From what I hear, it's something you would only read in books or see in movies. After all, the Mafia is no joke.
There are ranks, or social statuses if you may; but we wouldn't be much on that social part since it was clear that our associations weren't publicized. I mean, nothing was stopping a nosy journalist to snap a few stalker-ish pics and send it off to the media; but it wouldn't be long till they were found dead and all their work gone along with them.

It was a dangerous game. It was best to not play it at all.

In this type of business, there are 3 kinds of people. The suppliers, The distributors and the consumers. Of course they have better and proper terms for this, but I couldn't give a shit since my explanation wasn't that far off.

The Suppliers. Us. The big families branched all across the globe. Italian, Russian, Polish, Swedish, Mexican, Greek— eye roll— and so much more.

The distributors. The people that work with and under us. After a done made deal, our mass shipments get sent out from our Warehouses; which then they will distribute out accordingly.

And finally, the consumers. People. There's not much to it but except that. Whether if you buy from a guy that knows a guy, we couldn't care less. If you don't get caught, hurray. If you do, it won't effect us regardless.

We were Italian, a beautiful culture and language. Something I'm very proud to be. My father — now 55, runs our family established mafia, our family name being globally recognized.

The Vitale Family.

And even after all my families endeavors and hard work, we're still given that puny second rank. It's complete bullshit!

Even with my fathers old age, he works his butt off, harder than any other Mafia Leader I know. Yet, here we are. Second to them.

My siblings; Matteo, Bella, Serafina and Niccolò— are always on top of their game. Their assignments and shipments completed on time with perfection. Well, except for Niccolò and Bella.

Nic is only 8, making him the youngest out of the 5 of us whilst Bella is still in high-school. She wants to finish school before she partakes in any business within the Mafia. If she decides to, of course.

I'm the middle child out of the bunch. Like literally the middle, middle.
First goes Matteo then Serafina, me, Bella and finally little Niccolò—even though he likes to make it clear that he's all grown up. When he says that, I'll just bring up how he keeps sneaking into my room at night; asking to snuggle because he had another nightmare.

"It's final. You're just going to have to get over it, Ginevra."

"It can literally be any other family, any!"

"Like I just said, get over it!"

"You're doing this to piss me off, aren't you?" I seethed, glaring at the back of my older brothers head.