Bloodlines and Bullets

eighteen

I wake up to the harsh light of morning, my eyes gritty and swollen from crying. The pillow beneath me is damp. My throat is raw, aching with the remnants of sobs that tore through me in the dark.

I try to swallow, but the pain flares up, making me wince. My neck throbs from his grip, a cruel reminder of how close he'd come to crushing the life out of me. I force myself to sit up, ignoring the stiffness in my body. Each movement sends a wave of discomfort through me, but I push past it.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, wincing as I stand. Every step toward the bathroom feels like a battle against the soreness weighing down my body, but I keep going. My bare feet touch the cool tiles, sending a shiver up my spine. I reach for the sink, gripping the edge for support as I lean in closer to the mirror.

When I finally look up, I almost don't recognize the face staring back at me. My eyes are bloodshot and puffy, the skin around them swollen from crying. My throat throbs with each swallow, the bruises from his fingers darkening into an ugly pattern around my neck. It's like a collar, tight and unyielding, even now that his hands are no longer there.

I trace a finger over the marks, flinching at the tenderness. I straighten up, ignoring the sting of pain that comes with the movement. I take a deep breath, gathering the strength I have left. This isn't over. Not yet.

I turn on the faucet, letting the cold water run until it's icy. I splash it onto my face, wincing as it bites into my swollen skin. The cold helps numb the pain and wash away the remnants of my tears. I stare at myself in the mirror for a moment.

I put my head down and drink the cold water. Once the worst of the ache in my throat fades, I head back to my bedroom. I pull on dark grey Adidas shorts and an oversized shirt, the loose fabric offering a small comfort. I gather my hair into a messy bun, securing it with a scrunchie.

The sight of my dirty clothes piled in the corner remind me it's Saturday, which means laundry day. Luciano and his mafia members have maids to handle these chores, but no one's here to take care of mine. I don't mind, though. I'd rather do it myself.

I collect my clothes, methodically placing them in the laundry basket and as soon as everything is gathered, I head to the laundry room.

The laundry room is quiet, save for the rhythmic hum of machines working in unison. The room itself is large, almost industrial, with rows of washing machines and dryers lining the walls, like a laundromat straight out of a movie. It's impersonal, but that's a comfort right now. The familiarity of the task soothes me, grounding me in a way I desperately need.

I separate whites from colours, normal clothes from training gear, creating neat piles on the counter. The door creaks open behind me, and I glance over my shoulder, seeing Luisa and Sabrina enter. The two maids step inside, their presence immediately filling the room with their familiar chatter.

Luisa, the older of the two, is in her late forties, with a kind, motherly presence that has always made her approachable. Her dark brown hair is streaked with grey and pulled back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her olive skin, weathered from years of work, has a few deep-set lines around her eyes and mouth, but they only add to the warmth of her smile.

She's dressed in the standard maid uniform - a simple black dress with a white apron tied neatly around her waist. Her brown eyes are soft and compassionate, radiating a gentle kindness that makes her the heart of the household staff.

Sabrina, on the other hand, is younger, probably in her late twenties, with a more vibrant energy. Her hair is a rich, chestnut brown, cut into a bob that frames her round face. She has bright, hazel eyes that are always alert and curious, with a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks.