Vendetta

Chapter Eighteen: I Think He Has A Secret Girlfriend

^^^I'd call him Jared.

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If you have never been to a football practice, let me tell you this: watching a bunch of sweaty beef-men dribbling a ball here and there and running into each other is no fun. Honest.

Until you see a perfect shot to the groin.

'Ompf.' A linebacker, Greg something-or-the-other cups his balls in agony and writhes on the ground, while his teammates gather around him, faces contorted in equally painful grimaces.

I fight off a grin.

I am alone on the bleachers with my thoughts, Christian's backpack and Jared's rather smelly pair of socks for company. The sun's low, and the sky is a myriad of colors and I watch the team support their fallen comrade, sympathizing with his pain and leading him out of the arena.

The coach blows his whistle, and the others line back up. Christian flips the ball, streaking past defenders, and chucking a clean shot right up the goal post. The team cheers. I lean back on my elbows.

Christian Beneventi. I never thought he would've been a pro at football. He's a natural –I hate to admit – almost as good as Zach. Zach had been the best jock amongst the four, he had a natural incline towards the ball. Even though we had been home-schooled, Zach would be called to play by the high schools near us, and they would sneakily include him as the star of their team. He was the only one offered a full football scholarship at Oxford, and we had spent months prepping him up. We were all proud, all of us ready to fly out to London and settle down in colleges next to him so that we could hang out.

And then, it was all shattered. I was expected by my mother to take up the reins of the Mafia – a mere seventeen year old girl. Initially, my people were reluctant to be commanded by a girl, a teenager at that. But my mother bred me into a killing machine, with absolutely no compassion, and they were convinced. When my future was forced on me, my friends took up the burden with me, lifting me up. They gave up their dreams, just like me, though they had a choice.

It was hard on Zach. Football was his soul, his heartbeat, and he wanted to stay with me. I insisted he go, but he wouldn't even consider it. He left behind his dream, only to turn to the Mafia where he never found solace. None of us had, we all wanted to go beyond whatever the Mafia had in store for us. We wanted to be free, we wanted to have a life that wasn't the Mafia. We were born into the Mafia, yes, but we weren't ready to let it control us.

Zach had never even spoken of his dream since, his passion twisting away to a never ending addiction to alcohol and cigarettes.

I pick at my cuticles. What all had I lost? What all had we lost?

A supportive father, a loving brother, a caring mother, a wonderful family, a future with my friends.

All because of greed. All because one man let himself be blinded by hatred and greed so much that he slit the throat of a friend.

Arrigo Beneventi.

My nails dig into my palms as the name crosses my mind. The sky turns darker, but it must be my mood.

The Beneventi family and the Fiorentino family. I have never seen Arrigo, the seeds of rivalry between our families had been sown long before my birth. But the story goes that my grandfather and Christian's grandfather had been best friends. They led different families, but they were united –they had each other's backs covered. My dad grew up with Arrigo, even. Everything was perfect – a perfect alliance.

The only thing I remember about my grandfather is a weathered face of scars and his brisk, sharp voice, in which he told me the words that remain in my head, just like my mother's do : Al povero mancano tante cose, all'avaro tutte.