Forcefully Yours (Mafia Love Story) New Version

Prologue

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"Bashar had a lot of enemies Rafiya, a lot more than you and I know of. Now that he is.. Dead.. They will seek revenge from his family, from you and from his only son. Humza is too young to take over. He is only seventeen. There is no other way. You have to get married again. You have to marry someone strong enough to take hold of the business, until Humza is ready." I stare at the four scars on my arms, contemplating whether I'd need an another one tonight too.

Tears pricked at the backs of my eyes as I listened to the clamour in the living room between my relatives and my mother. My pulse hammered in my neck, and I struggled to catch my breath, gasping for air. I waited for my mother to speak, to refute their absurd demands. I waited for her to tell them that my father was irreplaceable.

My expectations were met with a stern silence.

As Malika's delicate hand intertwines with mine, I grasp it with every fibre of my being. I avoid meeting her gaze, not wanting to see the pity reflected in her eyes. I lean back against the guest room wall, eyes tightly shut, acutely aware of her presence beside me. Despite everything, Malika doesn't despise me as she rightfully should, for I am responsible for the death of her father just as I am for my own father's demise. It is a deeper wound for her because I was the one who took her mother's life as well. I often ponder if she is biding her time, waiting for the perfect moment to exact her revenge, knowing that I have ruined her life. Yet, I also accept that if she ever sought retribution, I would not defend myself, for it is what I deserve. For now, she understands me, and that understanding only amplifies my guilt. The least I can do is be there for her when she needs me and ensure her well-being.

She knows what I've been doing for the past one month now. The cuts I hide under my feet, the scars on my arms and head, the punctures, and burns hidden on my thighs, beneath my boxers, until they eventually healed and then I do it all over again. I'd gotten creative in hiding the shit I did to release pain.

Malika, though a few months younger than me, possessed the allure and desires of a grown woman. Ordinarily, I tried to resist her seductive advances, but in moments like these, it was impossible. She would always be there, silently observing as I cut myself with the blade, never once attempting to stop me. It was for this reason that I had grown attached to her and never asked her to leave during my breakdowns. There was an unspoken rule between us to never mention the night of the accident. Ever.

She refrained from passing judgment on my actions. For countless days, I wept to Allah, imploring Him to intervene, to do anything that might erase the tormenting pain, guilt, and memories that were wrecking my sanity. Yet, gradually and inevitably, I began to distance myself from Islam instead, from prayer, from everything halal to everything haram.

The guilt was soon washed away and in no time I was knee deep in a pool of sin, my sins.

"I hold immense respect for my late brother and would do anything to safeguard his family...our family. If she consents, I'd like to marry her. I will manage the business only until Humza is prepared." I grit my teeth, attempting to stave off the waves of betrayal that coursed through me.

Motherfucker!

A profound silence enveloped the hall as my father's younger brother proposed marriage to my mother. Despite being a few years younger than her, he had never married, despite Baba's relentless insistence. Now, the reason for his hesitation was crystal clear to me!