𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞

4.

Six days - it's been six days since the opening of the clinic in New York and all the incident surrounding it.

The feeling of being followed didn't leave me until I entered my house. And yet I had the need to check if anyone was in my small apartment.

The four hour train ride was agonizing, anyone who approached me I had the feeling that they were going to put a bullet between my eyes. The subway became my favorite transport, it's better to take different smells from everyone and everywhere than to have to cross paths with Mrs Ricci again.

When I got home I went to the small red box that I hadn't opened for 5 years. My gun. I always carry it with me now and I have it by my side all the time, even in the few hours of sleep I have.

The problem is that I'm going crazy. The lack of sleep, due to being constantly on the lookout for the slightest noise around my building coupled with the absence of Mrs Ricci and his men, is getting to me. I became so obsessed with the "mafia" theme that I started researching everything about it. I could do a thesis defense on this as well informed as I am. 

Somewhat suspiciously, I learned about the word Omertà and learned that Nicola Ricci, the supposedly kindest man in the world, is the boss of the Italian mafia. Despite suspecting that maybe he was  involved in illegal business, come to know that actually he is the head of an entity that only does illegal activities, made me a little sick. 

The day after the trip, I handed the 10 pages to my editor, who was very happy with the work. To my great surprise, only articles were published praising the generous work of Nicola Ricci. Nothing about the silence in the face of my questions and nothing about what I saw.

I even wrote an article about the truth behind this man's name and I just didn't publish it because my editor wasn't allowing me "We don't work with assumptions, we work with facts" he said while I was packing my things to go home "Serena, a man with such influence as he has cannot have an article like that published. Besides, he pays very well every month to have good articles about him."

"Journalism is society's power for society, you're not supposed to get paid to write about a person" I commented irritated with the power this man has over the media. He didn't answer and I made my way back to the house.

I know too much. And that's why they will chase me until they find me. Or will they ignore what I saw? Are they playing mind games and trying to manipulate me? I didn't know what else to think and honestly this anxiety of not knowing what will happen is killing me.

I stepped into my apartment and threw my bag on the bed, I took my gun into the bathroom while I put the water run to warm up and off my clothes.

Looking in the mirror I see a girl with several tattoos on her arms, on her back and one on her ribs: "Made in hell" in red that covered the scar that most represented my childhood and adolescence. A tattoo that reminded me that I am a survivor of my parents' bad decisions.

I like my body. My belly was flat and my waist was thin. I like my curves. My thick thighs continued my wide hips. I sighed. 

Why can't I look at myself? Why do I like what I see but at the same time feel like I need to go on a diet and lose weight? 

I don't like the very defined shape of my cheekbones and jawline. My lips were thick and my teeth were pretty if it weren't for the crack one has. 

My father's honor. 

My nose is big and despite being straight it makes me feel insecure about it. My green eyes were fringed with tiny lashes and they were very tired.

I got in the shower and the water was boiling my skin, just the way I liked it. I let it fall through my hair and down my body. What am I going to do? I can't hide forever and going back to Spain is not a solution. So much fighting for my freedom and running away from danger for now this happens. Thoughts flowed around my head, everything is a mess.