Bloodlines and Bullets

twelve

George chuckles, getting up from his seat with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Dessert time!" he announces cheerfully.

Moments later, he returns with two bowls of ice cream and two spoons, carefully balancing them as he makes his way back to the table. He plops down in front of me and slides one bowl across the table with a flourish.

"Special delivery," he says, flashing a playful wink.

I accept the bowl with a grateful smile, savouring the sight of the creamy treat. "Maybe I should share my salad more often with you," I joke, appreciating his thoughtfulness.

Marco, raising an eyebrow, looks at George with mock annoyance. "Where are our bowls?" he asks.

"You have two working legs, don't you?" George retorts with a smirk. "Go get it yourself."

I can't help but laugh as Marco shakes his head and gets up to fetch his own dessert. "Fuck you," he says, still amused, before heading to the serving area.

A minute later he returns with one bowl in hand. Sofia rolls her eyes, her tone playful yet exasperated. "Are you serious? You complain about him not bringing you a bowl and then you do the same thing with me?"

Her comment prompts another round of laughter from the group. Marco hands his bowl to Sofia with a smirk.

"Scusa, signorina. Ecco qui," he says, grinning.

She accepts the bowl and he heads back to get another for himself, the playful banter continuing. We dig into the ice cream, the rich, cold sweetness a perfect contrast to the warmth of the day.

Our conversation flows easily, drifting from one topic to another. The dining room gradually empties out, the lively chatter subsiding as other diners finish their meals and depart.

Eventually, it's time to head back to our rooms for a rest before the afternoon training session. I rise from the table, bidding farewell to my friends, and make my way down the quiet hallway. My footsteps echo softly against the polished marble floor, a soothing rhythm that matches my growing exhaustion.

Entering my room, I close the door behind me and let out a sigh of relief. The softness of the bed beckons, and I sink onto it gratefully. The day's events, combined with the weight of the training and tension, quickly catch up with me. Within moments, I'm enveloped by a deep, restorative sleep, the promise of rest a welcome escape from the demands of my current life.

The blare of the alarm clock yanks me from sleep, its jarring sound cutting through the haze of my dreams. I blink against the harsh light filtering through the blinds, my body feeling as though it's been trampled by a herd of elephants. With a groan, I drag myself from the comfort of the bed, each movement an exercise in determination.

I shuffle to the bathroom, my feet dragging across the cold tiles, the chill biting into my skin. The sound of the faucet sputtering to life fills the room, and I splash warm water onto my face, feeling the immediate shock of it against my skin. The water does little to erase the heaviness that clings to me, a reminder of how the fatigue lingers despite the supposed respite of my nap.

Dressing in a fresh set of training gear, I gather the pile of dirty clothes from the floor, my fingers moving mechanically as I toss them into the laundry basket. I catch my reflection in the mirror - a face etched with exhaustion, dark circles shadowing my eyes.

Thursday is here, and the weekend looms ahead as a brief oasis in the desert of my schedule. My plan is simple: sleep through half of it and use the rest to explore, to gather any scraps of information that might help with my escape.

The thought of finally devising a plan to break free from this place and bring Luciano's operation into the light is a small, burning hope in the back of my mind.