Addiction| 18+

1|Addiction

Hayley

Addiction
/əˈdikSH(ə)n/
noun — the fact or condition of being addicted to a particular substance, thing, or activity.

When people use the word addiction, they usually mean something like the dictionary definition—a substance, a thing, or an activity. A girl might say she's addicted to the color pink, or a guy might claim he's addicted to video games. But none of them have truly experienced addiction. None of them understand what it feels like to be completely consumed by something, to depend on it so deeply that you wake up needing it and fall asleep craving it. They've never felt the loss of control, the numbness that settles in when addiction becomes stronger than you are.

My addiction started long before I even realized it.

Back when I lived under the same roof as my father, Vincent White—the boss of the Sicilian mafia, one of the most ruthless organizations in the world. My mother, Laurel, stood beside him as his queen. She wasn't born into that life; she was sold to him at eighteen and forced into a love she never chose. Somehow, she learned to live with it—maybe even convinced herself it was love—and she gave birth to my older brother, Warren.

After Warren was born, my father had no intention of having another child. But my mother begged him for one more, and eventually, he agreed. That's how I came into the world.

My childhood felt normal, at least on the surface. The only difference was the secret we carried. We weren't allowed to tell anyone what my father really did. My mother tried to protect us from the truth by telling stories—carefully crafted ones—about how the Sicilian mafia helped people, how my father was a good man. For a while, I believed her.

Everything changed when Warren turned sixteen. That was when my father took him under his wing. Suddenly, my brother was never home, and when he was, he came back bruised—sometimes covered in blood. He stopped talking to me entirely, and when we did speak, it always turned into pointless arguments. At the time, I tried to convince myself it was normal, that whatever my father was doing was okay. But that illusion shattered on my sixteenth birthday, the night that changed everything.

I threw my first party at our house, inviting everyone I knew. The night blurred into flashes of loud music, laughter, and bodies moving through every room. It was also the first time I ever drank. I stayed close to my best friend and cousin, Rebecca. I was nervous, but she laughed and told me no one doesn't drink at their own party. So I gave in. The first sip burned, making me want to gag, but I forced it down and kept going.

Rebecca looked stunning that night in a short black dress and gold heels wrapped around her ankles. We danced for hours, laughing and singing like nothing else mattered. I didn't know it would be the last time I'd ever see her.

At one point, she leaned in and told me she spotted a cute guy and wanted to sneak away with him. I smiled and told her to go for it. Rebecca saw sex differently than I did—something to get over with—while I believed it meant more. Still, I supported her. Before she left, I told her I was heading upstairs because I felt awful. She teased me, calling me a party pooper, and said she'd tell me everything tomorrow.

Tomorrow never came.

The rest of the night exists in broken fragments. I remember making it upstairs. I remember closing my bedroom door. And then I remember being shoved back against it. The room was pitch black, and I froze as I heard heavy breathing. I tried to make out the figure in front of me, broad shoulders and a tall frame, and then I heard a voice I would never forget.