Secrets Red Aloud: Mafias Undoing

chp32 Kyros...

Darya

He opens the door for me as I get in.

“What's with the names? Keep forgetting who I am?” I look at him after he gets in; the afternoon traffic is hectic. We were going to be here for a while.

“It's a nickname.” he has that smug look on his face.

“I thought that mine was Rose, what happened to that?” I look at him, he's confusing. His face is confusing, never letting only the emotions he wanted to show.

“I came up with another one.” he states simply, meaning.

“You think about me often,” he clutches the steering wheel tight. Tapping impatient.

“Every hour of every day,” he sings, sarcastically,

“Not every second,” this time he finally looks at me, he holds my gaze. Something is stirring in those dark swirls.

He goes quiet, while he searches for something in my eyes, something that holds his attention that entices his gaze. Something worthy of him. Was I worthy of him? Why would I even ask that he's a smug arrogant being of a man. That opened the door for me. Tom never did that, but could I trust him?

Don't trust him.

Her words ring in my ears as a warning.

“Why did I have to wear red?” he breaks his gaze, I look at his beauty, the way his hair is perfect. Like he stands in the mirror of mr perfect.

“People in my line of work wear red,” his line of work, the mob, the mafia.

I don't know whether to out right say and ask, do you work for the Petrovs mafia? Or is that the wrong thing to say.

There's a silence in the car, a gradual silence that grows uncomfortable sitting on my shoulder, as if the world is on my shoulders. Heavy and weighted, trying to sink me like an anchor. Drown my words, my hope, my beliefs. I can feel the sting in my throat, my lungs struggling. My fear lacking oxygen. Without thinking i blurt out.

“You work for the mafia, don't you?” I try not to come off as aggressive, and demanding. But I think I did.

“If I did, what would you think of me,” he glances at me, hoping.

“Depends,” I let out a breath, inhaling as much as I could. Breathing out.

He starts to drive as the traffic starts to move, slowly. Agonisingly slow. I pull out my phone, to look at my latest blog. Out of interest, to not feel his gaze burning my skin but I can feel it seering my skin. I scroll past my blog, to look at the comments. They always brought a smile to my face. Calm my nerves.

I finally look at him, and there he is still staring at me, “what depends?” he finally asks, I question myself, what did it depend on? Then I knew?

“How corrupt are you?” I spit out, bad question, he's going to throw me out of a movie car. Bad wording as well. What kind of question is that? In reality it really isn't moving, He wouldn't get far nor would i. At this snail pace we are going at.

“Very corrupt you should be scared of me,”he stares at me harshly,” but the real question is do you actually know who I am?” his heated gaze lingers on my eyes. The burning fire in his eyes burns through the woods of his eye. Like this question is life or death.

Taking a deep breath, “Kyros… ” then it hits me, who he is. How didn't I realise? Maybe because of the way the stories are told of him and how he differs from them drastically. But everyone has a side to them.. Last I heard he let a guy go and tell a story of a massacre at the Remingtons charity ball. He shot him in the leg as a reminder.

“Kyros Petrov.”