Falling for Sin

Roots

The cold pavement pressed against my cheek, the sting from the pistol whip still radiating across my head.

I could taste blood, and my vision swam with stars. I thought it was over; I thought I was done for. She appeared like a specter from the tales of my childhood—my aunt, the matriarch of the crime dynasty I had long since been estranged from.

She stood over me, her silhouette framed by the dim light of the streetlamp. "Enough," she said, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. The one survivor—Darnell who had cornered me stepped back was now solo a mix of fear and respect in his eyes. She extended a hand, her grip firm and unyielding as she pulled me to my feet.

"Why are you here?" I gasped, clutching my throbbing head.

She didn't answer right away, instead, she surveyed the alley with a predator's gaze. "I've always been there just watching from a distance" she finally replied. "You may have forgotten your roots, but I haven't forgotten you."

As we walked to her car, I stumbled, still dazed from the blow. She supported me, her presence a strange comfort. "You're safe now," she assured me, her tone softening for just a moment. "Let's get you cleaned up."

In the backseat of her car, the city lights blurred past. I leaned back, the adrenaline fading, leaving exhaustion in its wake. The drive was silent, and I realized this was a turning point. I had been saved by the very ties I had tried to escape, by a woman who was both my aunt and a reminder of a world I had left behind.

I awoke to the softness of Egyptian cotton and the distant hum of New York City. My head still throbbing, a stark reminder of the cold metal that had collided with it just hours before. As my vision cleared, my focus of the room became clearer. Expensive rugs, Gilded mirrors, Renaissance art, and a chandelier that danced with light. This wasn't my modest apartment; this was Aunt Diane's loft.

I reached for my phone, its absence a harsh reminder of the night's events. It was probably still lying in the dark alley, a silent witness to the violence that had unfolded. Still— I had to let Jackie know I was safe, that the mysterious aunt I had spoken of only in half-truths had swooped in like a guardian angel—or perhaps, more fittingly, a godmother of the underworld.

I found a phone on the nightstand, one of those encrypted ones that screamed 'mafia'. With Diane's permission, I sent a message to Jackie, keeping it vague yet reassuring. "Safe. Will explain later. Don't worry."

As I lay back down, the weight of reality pressed upon me. I was in a world where forgetting to text your roommate was the least of your worries. A world ruled by Diane, where every move was calculated, and every silence was filled with meaning. I was now a part of it.

The click of the door was soft, yet it cut through the silence of the loft. Diane entered the room, her presence commanding even in the quietest of moments. She moved with an elegance that belied her strength, the matriarch of our hidden empire checking on her newest charge.

"Good morning, mo stór," her strong Irish accent greeted, her voice a soothing to the chaos of my thoughts. Her eyes, sharp and discerning, scanned me for signs of distress. "How do you feel?"

I managed a small smile, still overwhelmed by the thought of her world and the unexpected tenderness she offered. "Better, thank you," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

She nodded, her gaze lingering on the bandage that adorned my head—a painful reminder of the night's brutality. "You're safe here," she assured me, her hand reaching out to adjust the plush blanket that enveloped me. "Rest. Heal. When you're ready, we have much to discuss."

With those words, she turned and walked away, her silhouette framed by the doorway and her heels clicking away. I felt a surge of something indescribably new—maybe it was the sense of belonging, or maybe it was the realization that I was now part of a legacy that stretched far beyond this luxurious loft.