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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Intelligence is the ability to adapt to change."
- Stephen Hawking
SHE WAS five years old the first time her father had hit her. At least he tried to, anyway. She remembered it clearly; she was in the kitchen, had dropped a piece of carrot on the floor, and knelt down to pick it up. Her father, who had just returned home in a foul mood, came into the kitchen with an intention. An aim to get what he wanted: to take his anger out on someone else. He had raging eyes with fire, teeth gritted on his lip as if he was about to explode. And then those eyes had set onto Iris.
"What are you doing?" He said. "Did you drop your food?"
She shook her head, pressing the cold carrot into her hand. He frightened her. He was bigger, taller and louder than she could ever be.
He made her feel weak.
Her father growled. "Don't lie to me."
Matteo took Iris' hand behind their backs, pressing the carrot into his own. "She wasn't lying. I did, see?"
"Stay out of this, Matteo." Domenico said, watching him uncurl his hand to reveal the carrot. "She's been a brat all week, and I'm sick of it."
Iris whimpered. "I'm sorry, daddy."
Big shiny boots came into her view as he stomped towards her, breathing in sharply through his nose, hand raised. He was blind with rage, focused on only her. The girl who was innocent. His own daughter.
She began to cry as she waited for his slap to come. Waited for the pain. Waited for something.
But it didn't come.
As she opened her eyes, she saw Matteo shielding her body, pressing a hand to his cheek as he protected her, rigid and strong.
Guilt began to seep into Domenico's eyes, but he wouldn't ever apologise. No, Domenico had too much pride in himself to admit he had done something wrong. So he didn't, storming out of the kitchen and slamming the door behind him instead.
Alessandra sat at the kitchen table, her spoon halfway to her mouth, watching the whole situation take place. Still and rigid. Not even trying to stop him.
So she carried on eating as nothing was wrong.
Matteo encased Iris in his arms. "Are you okay?"
"He was scary, Matteo." She wailed, taking comfort in his warm arms, pressing her wet face onto his chest. He smelt safe. He was warm.
He cared for her.
"I know, Ris." He stroked her head, rocking her back and forth. "I know."
Iris swallowed at the memory, breathing in deeply to stop any signs of tears that were threatening to fall. At that split second when her father had raised his hand, Iris had felt vulnerable. She was terrified of her own father.
