MAX.

Chapter Eight: Part One

Max POV

"Smile."

My father's hand rested on my shoulder. His grip firm, my pose adjusting to his willingness. I sat up more straight, aligning with my brothers. The camera in front of use flashed. Lights shined on us, sheets of white filling in our background, seats in place for me and my brothers, while my mother stood next to that man. Make up covering the truth, beads of sweat forming along her forehead as the sun and lighting beamed down on us. Our yearly portrait.

It was a mockery. A warning. A stamp on our "family" name. The liquid form of perfection. To stay perfect for the man that tortured us on a daily. If he failed, we all knew. It was in his routine to instill obedience to each and every individual who held his name. Hamilton.

"Smile." He says. He mocks. He taunts.

The four of us hold on to reality, smiling for our family portrait.

For years I've learned that his definition of love and respect were very much different. His tone became deeper when he drank, his fists more firm. Watching my mother stand beside that man as if she were a shadow. Her smile broken, cracked from the various wounds she hid so greatly. Her tears covered with makeup, the streams somewhat still visible. Her lip busted, smeared with red matte lipstick. She was a shadow after all. A castaway my father married and turned into his personal punching bag.
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My father was born in 1954. Not much was known about his childhood, but from the conversations I've had with my mother and his sister, Carla, they didn't have much of a childhood experience growing up. His Italian parents; Eugene (his father) and Anita (his mother). Anita had no education. Her family also being poor, it had passed down to my father's early life. Living in the United kingdom at the time, my father's mother had been 14 when she had my father. At an early age she ran away from home to be with my grandfather, Eugene, who had been 20 at the time. He worked in a clothing and paper factory making enough to get by for them. But instead Eugene used his money to gamble and abuse alcohol. Following, the abuse started.

Anita would constantly run away from Eugene, leaving behind my father. This only meant that he had endured everything while his mother Anita ran the streets finding an escape for herself. From what my mother said, this left a big and dark dent in my father's life. Certain things done around Marlo (my father), would send him into a spiral. He'd lock away from his reality, turning into this sinister.

There was another time my aunt had mentioned a story involving my mother and some of Marlo's friends. I had mentioned before that Marlo as only poor in his early life. But by the time Marlo was 18, he had owned a part of the UK streets. Boxing arenas held illegal gambling in its place. Ticketing was ran by Marlo and his members of the Hamilton Mafia. This was around 1972. My mother was only two years old...

Cocaine had hit the streets in America. The scene had made millions for the poorest fool who had a mind of gold, the wisdom passed down to my father and he was well ready to take on this new challenge. That was how our name deepened. It was as if my father had sewed his name in the Italian, U.K, American flags.

His operation set off in 1974. Colombia had connected with Marlo, sending him shipments and keeping ports open. Once ships docked, the shipments were secured by his men and send over to five locations that he had owned. Boxing clubs and pubs. Because of his status at just 18 years, it was incredibly easy to move drugs in and out of Manchester and Plymouth. Derby and Bristol held the money he needed and wanted. The only way he'd be able to get through to those officials was to create brothels. My aunt told me that the brothels he opened had been the beginning of my mother and him meeting.