t.w - Tiny mention of self harm
. . .
Dante Valentino
Her plan was to hide. Hide where? I could help her with that. But I had a feeling she wouldn't like me interfering. Not yet, anyway. I knew she wasn't going to stay with me forever, that would be inconvenient. She could not go back to America for reasons she was yet to disclose, and I could not protect her in Italy forever.
The news of her being at my house had spread from the boutique. It wouldn't be long till Danilo barged into my house and demanded answers.
And the day came the very next day. The whole day Blue didn't speak much. I knew what it felt like to be hunted, there had been a time both - the Bratva and my own mafia had been after me and my brothers. We had survived, but we knew how to survive.
She, on the other hand, was a five feet something nerd who's reaction to danger was to blab or shut down.
Danilo arrived just as the night fell and Blue walked back to her room. I welcomed the man in and led him to the bar, knowing going through this conversation would be hard without a little alcohol in my system.
He sat on a chair, gulping his drink down instantly. Danilo was an old man - probably in his sixties and that was an age not many mafia men made it to. His blond hair had turned grey and face was nothing but lines.
"Two months till the engagement," he said. "And you make a bastard your whore?"
I took a sip of my drink. "Can I not have a mistress?"
His jaw clenched but he wiped the fury off his face the next second. So many years in the mafia and the man was yet to master emotions. The trick was to feel it, and then let it slide while showing nothing. Suppressing anything didn't make it disappear. Dams break eventually.
"I am no one to speak in your personal matters," he said slowly, saying every word with hesitation which made me wonder why we had even made him the underboss of florence. "But she is a bastard and an american."
"She is Pietro's daughter."
"Illegitimate daughter," he said. "After the announcement of your brothers' engagement to Le- Miss Campbell, the people are on edge. I am not your consigliere, so I do not have a right to say this. But as your future father-in-law, I carry the obligation to say that keeping her, even as your mistress, is not making many people happy."
I took a sip of my drink, humming.
He kept looking at my face, waiting for a response.
"Leave," I said.
. . .
I looked out of the window at her as she sat herself on the ground, lit up by sunlight which reflected from her earrings. She was wearing a light blue dress with her hair tied up in a bun. She struggled to find the right position and eventually ended up laying on her stomach and scribbling on her notebook with a pen which shone too much.
I sat on the window sill, sighing. Danilo had not said one thing I hadn't already thought of. I knew the impact of bringing Blue under my protection would have, especially after half of the mafia lost its shit after Giovanni and Fabiano announced their engagement to Leyla.
I didn't know Blue. I was risking too much for her.
Then her head lifted and she looked at me. I watched as her eyes narrowed and I chuckled.
. . .
There were, of course, moments when I regretted not taking my life after we ran away from Igor.
I had been close. So close. After Giovanni had refused to kill me, I went to the nearest, tallest building and sat there, on the rooftop, till the world quietened and darkened.
I had been ready. So ready. So close.
Even today, I could feel the burn of the bruises I had back then. Giovanni, Fabiano and I had fought ten men in a cage. That had been the condition of our Uncles. We could have taken the reins by force, but we decided winning their respect wouldn't hurt.
But that cage was hell. Those men were rabid dogs, tearing away at us. But we had trained. We had trained so much.
We defeated them and the wounds of that fight, which went on for hours, were still on us in the form of scars.
I took a sip of my drink, walked away from the bar and climbed the darkened stairway.
I paused by her door, contemplating. Her presence always calmed me. Sitting in darkness while drinking scotch wasn't going to do me any favours.
Talking to her could make me feel better.
Better than I deserved
So I walked to my room, ripped open wounds I never allowed to heal, and slept smelling like blood.
That smell was familiar. It was, in every fucked up way, home.
Whenever I bled, I was home.
. . .
(3/3)
