Double Agent

○ one ○

"Where the fuck is she? Find her now," he snarls, swiping the papers off the desk in rage.

They flutter peacefully to the floor in little white rivulets as the attendant flees the room in fear. The crack in between the doors of this closet does not provide me with nearly enough information to see what's happening, but I see enough. My heart beats at a dangerous staccato and my lungs urge me to bring air in faster, harder, to compensate for the chase through the house. I refuse, choosing to keep my breathing light and controlled. The slightest noise and I was dead.

Four men dressed in black circle a central table, leaning over documents and floor plans. They bunch papers up, hang them with thumbtacks on walls and rip them up, throwing them to the floor. They don't have to clean it up, obviously, because later Miranda and Belize, the two servant girls, will have to pick them up one by one and scrub the desk top to bottom. Usually, I'd be cleaning up the mess with them, but now, because I have officially tested the patience of all four men in the room, I need to plan my escape quicker.

My father was the Capo of one of the largest branches of the Italian Mafia. He led us with pride and dignity, keeping it as one of the most feared, but most respected.

That is until he died. Bullet wound to the chest, bleeding out on the cold porcelain. I watched the floor turn red, cried so much it wasn't only wet with blood, and shook his lifeless body in my tiny hands. I was only 8. The sniper on the roof, sent by one of his enemies, was captured, tortured and killed, but that wouldn't bring him back. Nothing would.

I had an amazing father. He took care of me, let me do my own things, urged me along paths I wanted if not the Mafia Princess. I never felt subdued or threatened by him or anyone under him.

Except my mother.

A shitty one night stand between the two brought me to this world. By the many unspoken rules the two were forced to be married. I was a tiny little bridesmaid the day my mother scrunched her nose up at my father at the altar. She wouldn't kiss him. To her, I was a mistake, a thing that ruined her life forever and bound her to this infernal prison. To my father, I was a blessing.

'Little speranza', he used to call me.

My mother took charge after my father's death. Everyone in this district now follows her orders and respects her decisions. No one dares to speak up, people just do as they're told and move on with life, trying to stay alive as much as the next person.

My mother was always cold to me. Never spoke to me unless she had to, never hugged, kissed or touched me. Pretended I didn't exist. After my father's death, it only became worse. I was only allowed a week of mourning. She left me in my father's quarters for a week as men came in and out, clearing paperwork, donating relics, removing every trace of him. When the week was over I was gone, thrown to the side and forgotten as the mafia carried on what they needed to do. I was of no real importance, and my father was so confident the hive would protect me that he taught me nothing.

So, I taught myself.

The house we lived in was big and had all the appearances of wealth, in a little cul de sac neighbourhood surrounded by houses of other mafia families. It wasn't just a house, it was the main information centre. All the important people stayed there, did their work, and played cards. We settled in the States for an old job, but now we are the eyes and ears for the rest back home.

I taught myself to cook my own food using the scraps in the kitchens (the cooks refused to be caught giving food to me), built a bed for myself in one of the rooms far away from the centre of the house (my mother refused to see the sight of me anywhere near her), and taught myself basic defence (for when I was sent places to act as bait). I made friends with those who were considered forgotten; the people who cleaned up messes, the people who served, the people who cooked, the people who did undercover jobs. The only reason I was required was to either present a united front in front of meetings, to do the hard and gritty work nobody wanted to do, or to be thrown into foreign places as bait for their schemes.

My mother too had her own use for me. I was her personal stress toy. She would spew profanities, tell me I was a waste of her time, hit me, hurt me, whatever she wanted to do, and then throw me away. Other than that, the people I loved or cared about no longer spared a second look at me.

Her mafia was dirty. We used to have a basal level of respect for the kind of shit we would do, but now with my mother as leader, the things we do are so low even the others spit at us. They steal from the poor, kill innocent people for selfish reasons, and the men are allowed to do whatever they want with the women they find. I hated it. I hated it so much I wanted to leave.

But I couldn't. I was still the daughter of one of the most powerful people in the world, and a second murder would show weakness in our networks. My mother could never allow that. I was grateful for the protection I still received but at 21 years of age, I was still trapped inside a dead house. I had nothing and no one.

So I planned. I planned and I thought and I knew that the only way to escape would be to erase any documentation of me. We had a huge database of names and places of interest. It was a dark wide excess, where anyone could find information on anyone. Deleting my file would set me free. I would be gone from the place, my attachments undone, and I was free to go.

I knew it would work because someone else had done it before. Infamous because nobody looked for him. Deleting yourself from the database was secret code for telling them you didn't want to be found but relinquishing all the rights you had to the business.

So that's what I did on this exact day. I distracted the bodyguards, pretended to have nothing to do, sneaked into the General Monitoring Office and tried to do it. I had everything, the password, the security code, the cameras were down. I planned for weeks. Memorised schedules, watched the clock, eavesdropped, coded. Coincidentally, the room had a visitor.

I ran. Through the house, past the rooms and offices as a few other security officials chased me.

I ran into the first door I found, and unfortunately for me, it was one of the biggest offices. By the looks of the newly wiped tables and the sheets spread out on it, a meeting was about to happen. With no time left, I chose the next best option and hid in the large closet of suits to the left of the table.

That is where I find myself angering my uncle and a few of his men as they deal with the mess on the table and a troublesome niece. No doubt my mother will make me suffer for this. I can't run, and there're only so many places I can hide. My brain wracks to think of a new way to escape. I knew this was a risk and I still did it anyway. Now I'll have to pay.

Sweat drips down my neck and disappears into the fabric of my shirt as I watch them tear the table apart.

"I just don't understand where he could have put it," one of the men grumble.

"It is absolutely ridiculous for us to lose something like this."

"Il vecchio capo era una stronza," another one seethes, typing furiously on a computer. (The old boss was a bitch)

My uncle nods in assent, putting a phone up to his ear.

"I don't know why Signora Capo wants this now. They're old useless documents, nobody's even seen them and they're not going to help now."

"She wants to burn them. Incinerate every copy. Says some people are going to be looking."

"If we never find them we could just declare them destroyed already."

"Stai zitto e non dire cose stupide." (Shut up and don't say such stupid things.)

I can't help but ruffle my feathers. The need to know what they need so badly is infernal and annoying.

"Who's coming to get them though? Who would need them?"

A long pause.

"MI6."