blood runs black

III

'you don't know me, you just know my name'

- aaryan shah

dior

Dior and Enzo knew each other.

They'd known each other for a long time, but they had been more.. affiliated with each other since Dior was sixteen. They had always been enemies, due to the feud between the Mexicans and Italians. And they were never really associated with each other until Dior was sixteen, and deemed old enough to start being used as a weapon.

Two weeks after Dior turned sixteen, her father decided she was old enough to be a weapon, and her very first task was to kill Enzo Moretti. Of course, she didn't. She tried, and she failed, and two weeks following, Enzo tried to kill her.

Both of them were skilled. Dior had been training to fight, throw knives, and shoot with a range of guns since the day she turned seven. She first threw a knife at nine years old, and first shot a gun at eleven. And from then on, she kept up the training and became good at it. She knew she was good at it.

And she knew she wasn't going to be able to kill Enzo. But her father sent her off to kill him anyway, practically forced her into it by roughing her up and making her painfully aware that she had no other choice. And when she failed, she only got that same harsh treatment again, if not a little worse.

And then two weeks later, Enzo tried to kill her in response.

And for the next six years, it became a thing. One of them would try to kill the other, but they'd both be too skilled to be successfully put down. So it was just a series of trying and failing. There were times where they got close to killing each other, but never did.

It was never enough.

Dior first killed someone when she was eight. She didn't want to, but she was forced to. She looked a man in the eyes, a father with a daughter her age, and shot him between those same eyes that silently pleaded for her to not make the shot. But she did, because her father was behind her, with a painfully tight hand gripping her shoulder.

That kill was the first of many.

Most of the time she didn't want to kill the target. She'd plead and cry, and then be brutally reminded that she didn't have a choice. And so, she'd go off and kill someone, and that would be it. And she'd feel the blood on her hands even in her sleep, break down when she washed her hands over and over and still couldn't get it off, wishing she could take it back.

Sometimes, though, she wouldn't regret it. When she knew a person deserved it, she'd kill them in cold blood and not give a fuck about what the consequences were. If someone mourned that person, they probably mourned them not knowing the truth.

Sometimes, knowing the truth was suffocating. Like how she knew the truth of her mom's suicide, and she had to keep it to herself. And how she knew the truth of how terrible her father was, and she couldn't tell her brother.

Whenever she tried to kill Enzo, she didn't want to. Whilst Enzo was her sworn enemy, the son of her rival mafia, she didn't want to kill him. Mostly because the first time she tried, she wasn't given a choice, but also because Enzo, with everything she tried to find out about him, didn't seem deserving of death.

Enzo looked like a Greek God, built like Hercules, with the face of an angel. His hair was dark, almost black and so was his light stubble, a stark contrast to his olive skin, and it made his hazel eyes look so much brighter. And he was tall, around six foot four, and covered in tattoos, but it never intimidated Dior. But the fact that Enzo was beyond attractive made it harder for Dior to want to kill him.

Whilst he was a manwhore, cold and callous save from with his family, he wasn't a bad person. He too had blood on his hands, but Dior had heard stories of his mercy, of how sometimes he let people live because they had people to live for. That they had people to go home to, and Enzo never wanted to destroy a family.

Unless they deserved it.

In that sense, Dior and Enzo were the same. But Dior wasn't able to just let those undeserving of death live. She wasn't in control of that. Whilst all the kills she made were done by her own hand, the orders were given from her father. And no matter how much she wanted to, she couldn't defy that man.

She wished she could.

Sometimes, the tasks Fernandez gave Dior made her feel like she wasn't even human. 

Like when she'd have to seduce some creepy old men, maybe even let them take her back to their place, and then either knock them out and have someone take them away, or kill them herself. She never wanted to, but to her father she was just bait, a weapon, a pawn in his game.

And just like with the blood on her hands that she couldn't wash off, she could never get rid of the feeling of those hands on her skin. Because even if she knew what she was meant to do, and knew where the night would take her, she still never really wanted it. 

But alas, she was just a weapon.

Weapons weren't meant to have feelings.

Dior must've been a faulty weapon, because she felt. She felt so fucking much.

It felt like being unable to breathe.