Fuel

one

April was stupid.

Not in the conventional sense,no. That girl was smarter than I could ever be when it came to theories and science shit,but when it came to any sort of practicality,she knew nothing.

Nada.

Which is how I found myself uncomfortably tangled in an embrace with my older sister,her arms hopelessly wrapped around me as she sobbed on about the guy that broke her heart,again.

At twenty six,you'd expect the bitch to know more about how life worked,and how people should be just a quick fuck,but instead she was the kind of girl who preferred a mundane,calm life and taught prep at the local public school.

She reached my shoulders at five foot three,as my moderate 5 foot 10" towered over like some lumberjack.
While her body was small and petite,with curves in the right places except her butt,the girl was the exact opposite of me.

I was blessed with absolutely no tits.

I mean,I was given a little. But what sort of deranged dude would choose to have a B cup when you could have Double D's right on a silver platter?

While her long,wavy hair was usually kept natural and swept past her lower back,mine reached the ends of my chin in a bob and was stick straight.

Needless to say,she was the prettier of the bunch with her straight nose and perfect teeth.

Hell,when you're in the mafia,you can't survive without your nose being broken at least twenty times.

Extreme?

In your eyes,probably. For us,normalcy signified killing at least fifteen people a day and sitting down and laughing over dinner.

That is how it worked.

We were a family.

Back to the present,nevertheless.

Here was April,sobbing into my arms and allowing me to return whatever pathetic attempt of reassurance I was giving her.

*******

Sebastian Blackwell was a dead man.

No,I mean he was literally dead,as I dragged his body into the incinerator and lit him on fire,laughing at the way his muscles palpitated and moved when he was shoved into the fire.

It was some sort of reflex action,I'd read. Back when I lived with my family,we once saw our uncle get burnt to flames and the way his body reacted had frightened me,as though he was still alive and in agony.

Lighting up a cigarette,I stood up straighter as Solonik entered and grabbed it,putting it to his lips and inhaling the heated sense of tranquility it brought to our sick souls.

Solonik towered over me at six foot three,his boots the exact replica of mine,except a size that was five sizes larger.

His head was always shaved,the small blonde strands peeking through the top as tattoos littered his face.

His entire demeanor screamed look away,although his job was only tech and he'd only killed one person his entire life.

Emile and Raoul entered the room on the other end,gentle smiles on their faces as they watched us inhale poison into our systems.

Neither of them drank or smoked.

At nineteen,they were the physical embodiment of innocence.
Small limbed,pale with large blue eyes and dark hair,the Rostov twins were the silent,cold blooded killers of the estate.

They barely spoke,and like me had probably killed at least a hundred thousand people in the world.

It seemed unreal.