Fatalé (18+)

Chapter eleven

Ilaria

Life was always easy for me growing up. My father is an infamous man in the dark side of the world. Some would call him conniving and others would still fall to their knees just to impress him. Some would set their goal to even go through such lengths to kill him but that never happens because they are killed before they can even try. However, who he really was, was a Lombardi. 

My father was known to many people because he had passion for the things he does. He never failed to keep up with his reputation. As he grew, he built a better family for the Lombardi's, just so there are generations of us which never ends.

Dante Lombardi is notorious in the mafia world because he is his own mafia, but in my world, he is my Papà.

Someone that I want to stand by forever. Someone that I, out of hundreds of people from across the word, appreciate. Someone I miss. Deeply.

My Papà was my guidance, my saviour and my knight. He was my protector and my provider, he was everything up until I left him behind, in my past. I couldn't imagine the pain I might have caused him, I couldn't fathom it. He must hate me for putting him through this, the heartache and torment I felt was also felt by my Papà because we were just alike.

A man's first daughter always gets it the worst, they say, but that was never true being Dante Lombardi's first daughter.

He is the best man in my life.

Lately, I let my emotions eat me away. Tears streamed down my face as I walk up to my apartment building in Paris. Reminiscing my past did me no favours, it only left me distraught. It was my weakness, I never cry suddenly. When Alfonso trained me physically, he also trained me emotionally. I was trained to never let my emotions get the best of me but today, I failed. Miserably. I returned to Paris to collect a few of my things, a jet was waiting for me to return back to Seattle. I was going to return to Seattle and stay there a while, wait for Ricardo's approval of returning to work and train Santos a little.

I wipe my face with the back of my hand and feel my chest tighten, I was tired and Paris seemed to be the perfect location to wind down and just sleep. If Ricardo was going to restrict me from doing tasks, I might as well spend my time here in Paris. But then, Santos came to mind. Suddenly, Santos felt like he was my responsibility.

After climbing the stairs, I walk along the long passage and reach the front door of my apartment. I open the door and walk in, a small fraction of a second made me halt in my steps and think about something I would've never had to think of if nobody was already in my supposed empty apartment, but they were. I glance over my shoulder as I familiarise myself with the surrounding, I could smell them.

Someone was here when they should not be.

I close the door and lock it, to keep my intruder inside. I must be unfortunate to encounter intruders daily. Intruders are stupid. They invade your privacy and think it's acceptable. Which idiotic intruder thought it was acceptable to intrude an assassins home? A home designed for an assassin? What made him think he'd get out alive today? Do intruders not have their own homes? Do they need to occupy mine? I grew tired of this. I was good to kill people, only if they don't stain my carpet with blood or drop dead on my bedroom floor. I didn't want to clean up their mess. It wasn't my job.

But when I familiarised myself a little too much, I grew a sudden interest of my intruder, perhaps because I may have figured out who it was. I definitely know who it was. I couldn't seem to forget that certain and unique smell. It was etched into my mind. It was so strong, it felt like this person rolled on every surface and furniture already. I slowly tip toe my way to the vase at the front door and reach for the pistol I placed there for precautionary reasons, in case of events like this. Which I despise.