Iris Giorgianni is no ordinary girl. She's living a double life: a neglected daughter at home, but a fighter on the streets. As the leader of The Sangue - one of the most wanted and well-known gangs in London - Iris has a reputation to uphold. Only...
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"The most beautiful things are not associated with money; they are memories and moments. If you don't celebrate those, they can pass you by."
- Alek Wek
AS IRIS LEANED against the cold brick wall, the wind whipping her hair around her face, she wondered what her life would be like if her parents weren't rich. A lot of the people she knew often took what they had for granted - loving parents, siblings that looked out for you. Money was commonly a prospect of desire, something that everyone mistakenly thought would be the pathway to happiness. Iris, however, was a walking example that money does not make you content - she knew that firsthand; she experienced it every day.
Iris didn't need money - not as much as her parents had, at least - what she needed was love. Affection. Some emotion from others to show that people cared for her. That she wasn't alone.
But of course, the members of The Sangue would never understand, because they had been brought up on the streets. They'd gone hungry for days. They'd been forced to steal to survive. Those that fight for a right to live would always feel that not having money is a limitation. That having it is the key.
Iris decided to avert her thoughts to something else. It was time to move on and accept that her life wasn't going to change - she had been upset for the whole week, anyway. After she was told the news of Davis' death, she had fallen into a pit of desolation, despair, and darkness. It was a feeling that she wanted to forget.
The air felt cool on her face as she waited for Sniper to pick her up from the hospital. It was the first day that she had been out since the accident, and she didn't exactly feel any better. In fact, her wound was still painful: it was a constant ache to remind her of that fatal night, throbbing every few seconds like bursting waves from the ocean.
A couple walking into the hospital pretended not to have seen the blood marks on her shirt. The doctors had offered to give her a spare change of clothing, but she refused. To have someone give her them felt wrong. She had more than enough clothing at home - more than she wanted. Not to mention the fact that she'd have to throw them away, whatever the outcome. Having hospital clothes in her room would only serve as a reminder of her experience there, and that was something she never wanted to think about again.
When Sniper finally pulled up, her red lips - like a flower - parted into a toothy smile reaching her ears. It was good to see his face. It had been too long.
"What's up, boss?" He said as Iris opened the passenger door, ducking her head under the roof of the car.
Her smile grew wider. "So glad to get out of there. You wouldn't believe how boring it was."
"Well, you're here now." He replied. His hair seemed curlier than usual today, swept into a mess over his forehead. Sniper was a skinny boy: he had a fast metabolism, and he liked running often to exercise. Something about it clearing his head - Iris never really understood it.
