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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"There are memories that time does not erase... Forever does not make loss forgettable, only bearable."
- Cassandra Clare
"TELL ME about your mother."
"She was funny. Real funny. Had this huge smile that bounced off onto other people. And her dance moves. Oh god, her moves, Ris. They were so shit. She used to stand up and wave her hands in the air, moving her hips in this weird jagged style. And then she'd sing along to the music at the top of her lungs, pulling anyone around up to dance with her. She made me happy. Even if I came home, tired and annoyed, pissed off from someone out in the street who knew what strings to pull. She'd untangle me from my anger and smooth me out, stroking my head and telling me, 'who the fuck gives a shit about someone who's mad'. Man, she was really something." He shook his head, his lips tugging at the sides. Although his eyes were glassy, they held a hint of happiness, a delicate feeling of contentment within his most sacred memories.
Iris smiled, picturing the image of Mrs Adams, a bright light guiding her son with love and comfort through the rest of his life, even without her existence in the flesh. Although Iris ached for that presence in her life, she let a soft happiness overwhelm her. Happy that Davis remembered his mother as a resilient, buoyant and healthy woman, not as she was in the last days of her life, staggering through the ruthlessness of cancer.
"I don't like talking about my feelings," Davis said after a while, taking a sip from the red wine bottle they were sharing, passing it onto to Iris. "But for some reason, you make it easy."
Iris swallowed the sharp taste of the wine. It was a one-hundred-pound bottle, given to her parents years ago by some of their partners in business. They left it in one of the cupboards, refusing to drink anything less than five-hundred pounds. Anything that didn't reach their standards was unnecessary, at least in their eyes. "I like listening." Iris replied. "There's something calm about it, you know?"
Davis looked at her and grinned. "Yeah. I get you."
They were leaning against Davis' windscreen, their backs pressed against the glass as their feet hung off his car, staring at the city from a distance, watching the lights flicker in and out of reality. It was quiet, which is why they liked it. A calming air of tranquillity – a place, not to escape, but to revel in. To become aware of their existence.
"I want to be the leader." Iris said after a while. "To run the Sangue."
Davis accepted the bottle of wine and smiled. "I know. And you will be. I can tell."
"Really?"
"Yeah. You have this strong mentality, this way about you – I don't know what it is, but that makes it easy to trust you. I'm not the only one who thought this. Slash was talking to me the other day. Said you're perfect for it, when he leaves for uni."
