The Red-Haired descendant

Chapter 1: Sara

                        Sara

Everything is quiet, and my victim's blood splatters across the room. Their screams and pleas for mercy echo in my mind, but I feel nothing. Their desperation sounds like a strange, dissonant melody, one that I’ve long since learned to tune out. They thought they could escape, but why would I let them? I was delivering punishment for their wrongdoings. Each life I took was one less burden on the world, a necessary removal of those who had committed terrible acts deserving of my judgment.

I buried my emotions deep within, a fortress crafted from pain. At five years old, I witnessed the murder of my entire family. One night, my father woke my brother and me from our sleep, urging us to follow him. He had discovered intruders in our home—the very kind who sought his life—and took us to hide.

My brother, bravely venturing to check on our parents, promised he would return but never did. Hours turned to an eternity inside that cramped closet until I could bear it no longer. When I finally dared to leave, what I found shattered me: my family lay lifeless on the floor, each with stab wounds marring their once vibrant bodies. I waited for two days, hoping against hope that they would wake, incessantly counting the twenty-two stab wounds over and over in my mind.

On the third day, our landlord came to collect the rent and found me sitting beside my family's corpses, blood smeared across my small hands. My grandfather arrived while the police searched for a relative to care for me. My father had once been part of a powerful mafia family but had left that life behind to marry my mother for a semblance of normalcy. My grandfather had erased all evidence of their connection, his past hidden under layers of silence. When one of his enemies uncovered the truth, they annihilated my family to eliminate the Rossi bloodline. I was the only survivor.

Jokes on me; I’m now 22.

I grew up under my grandfather's stern tutelage, subjected to rigorous training meant to eradicate any weakness that could lead me astray like my father had. At nine—just the age my brother was when he died—he forced me to kill our family’s murderer, solidifying my transformation into everything my father was not: a relentless killing machine, feared by many.

I fought my way to the top, becoming one of the most powerful female mafia Dons, but deep within, something in me remains shattered and irreparable. After leaving my victim in the room, I found Marco waiting by the door. I instructed him to arrange for the cleanup and walked past him, but he tagged along as I approached my sleek Lamborghini.

Annoyed, I turned to him. “What do you want?”

He flashed a smug grin and inquired, “Are you coming to the party tonight?”

I considered it for a moment before replying, “No. Just tell Amara to let those old geezers know I’m busy. I’m sure they’re planning to set me up with their son. I won't be back until tomorrow, so don’t call me.”

I climbed into my car and sped off, the scenery blurring past me.

After driving for some time, I found myself in a place my mother used to bring me as a child—an isolated refuge where silence reigned and nature whispered in vibrant tones. Sitting by the ocean, I rocked back and forth, lost in thought. Then a man approached me, standing about six feet tall with an athletic build. His sharp jawline accentuated the allure of his striking green eyes. Despite the danger that radiated from me, he seemed undeterred.

He settled next to me, casually asking my name. I ignored him, hoping he would take the hint and leave, but he persisted. He began sharing stories about his daughter, Isabella, a lively five-year-old who brought joy to his life.

For reasons I couldn’t quite grasp, his words enveloped me in an unexpected comfort. With anyone else, I might have reached for my gun, ready to threaten them into leaving. But for him, I simply listened, captivated by his tales. In that fleeting moment, he managed to draw me away from my dark thoughts, making me feel something other than emptiness for the first time in ages.

Abruptly, he received a phone call. I noticed the shift in his demeanor as he answered, his expression turning serious. He stood up, offering me a brief, apologetic smile before walking away to address the urgent matter.

As he disappeared into the distance, the warmth of his presence evaporated, leaving me once more alone in the suffocating darkness of my mind. The sound of waves crashing against the shore faded into a haunting silence, echoing my own emptiness.

The momentary escape he provided slipped away, and I grappled with the familiar heaviness settling in my chest. I wrapped my arms around my knees, staring into the abyss of the night, the weight of solitude enveloping me like a shroud.

For a fleeting moment, I thought about calling out to him, asking him to stay, to return, and to resume our conversation. But the words died in my throat, smothered by the shadows of my past. Instead, I remained there, engulfed by a darkness that felt all too familiar