𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐞 | machine gun kelly

44

The Bronx, New York,
March 2023,

Davina Martinez's pov;

"WHERE DID YOU GO MAMA.." CONNOR'S words still rang in my head, tugging painfully at my heart.

He had spoken them to me on the boss' private plane, nestled close to me as he rested his head against my chest, unwilling to sit in his own seat that was assigned to him.

He hadn't cried when Noah had brought him to me, and it stunned me how receptive my child had grown to become. He was intuitive, he was determined, and he was already so brave.

Mama. The word was hot in my head. How long had I yearned to hear that word in his voice? How long-even when I had been with him-had I yearned for him to quickly grow up to the point where he could just speak to me in words, no matter how young and broken they were?

I had gained and lost the privilege of being his mother, and now at twenty five, I had taken it back again and I was not going to lose it anymore.

"Mama had to have a heart transplant," I had answered into his hair, kissing his head. "I was hurt and I had to leave, my love. I'm so sorry."

"Daddy said you went to heaven. He said I don't have a mama anymore," The boy had looked up at me with bright eyes. "Have you come from heaven, mama?"

I hadn't known then how to answer. I had not come from heaven, I had not died. I didn't even know if heaven was a place for me anymore. The boss and his gang had roped me in, I did everything they said-and I had to shut myself out for every task. I had fallen deep into the very things that repulsed me once. I had gotten my hands dirty and the dirt would not wash off anymore.

We stood outside of the JFK international airport, our flight having landed twenty minutes ago. I had felt as though the boss himself would be there once we landed, but thankfully, he had pressing matters to attend to. Which was why he had summoned his jet back before we had reached The Bronx, New York. I held onto Connor's hand as Noah went on a call to summon the driver the boss had appointed for us instead. The car ride to The Bronx would be about thirty minutes give or take.

"There are so many people, mama," The little boy at my side spoke then, as he took in the rushing crowd traditionally going to and fro in the airport.

I touched the black scarf over my head briefly, making sure the knot hadn't come loose under my chin. My sunglasses offered me a dim look at the crowd underneath the raging New York sun.

It had been two whole years since I had modelled. Two years since my face or body was last on the internet. I remembered reading an article when I had arrived in The Bronx, New York, it had been an obituary-my obituary. There were so many more articles, The Rolling Stone, TMZ, The Daily Mail-everyone had covered the news of the rising Zac Posen model Davina Martinez, who had been fatally shot down or had overdosed and committed suicide in the prime of her life.

I had no control over that news, some of them had been utter fabrications while some were dangerously close to the truth.

Machine Gun Kelly-as per a source-had been in the vicinity, but he had provided no insight when asked. The popstar hadn't said anything at all publicly.

And privately? He couldn't have done anything to make a difference. What was he to do? He had already killed my murderer, hadn't he? Then he had left my body to be buried by his mother's capable hands. So what use was it to send police and authorities on a chase when he knew the death and the cause of it?

So I had remained a mystery in the eyes of the public. At the core of it all, I had been a budding model quickly rising in the industry-a former tour fashion designer for Trippie Redd, a former victim of assault by ASAP Rocky, known notably from her work in the House of Z, who had tragically died at the age of twenty three, two years ago now.