Belladonna (Tom Holland)

Prologue

When I was a kid, my father would take me to this five star restaurant every Friday to celebrate the end of the week. As privileged as I was, however, I never understood the wealth of the restaurant and its importance to him; to me it was comparable to McDonald's. As Friday would draw to a close and the grandfather clock in our living room chimed six, our maid Georgiana would help pick the prettiest dress from my closet to wear and my father would pull in the driveway from a hard day's work. As Georgiana would escort me to the driveway, my father would roll down the window and grin. "Another week down, Bella," he said and opened the car door to pick me up and hug me. He would then open the back door and help me into my seat, walk to the front door of our house, knock, and escort my mother to the passenger side of the car.

We continued this tradition until I was sixteen. By then school was becoming increasingly more difficult and I was finding less time to bond with my parents due to sports and extracurriculars, so it turned into every other Friday. The clock would chime six, Georgiana and I looked through my dresses, my dad would get out and hug me, and escort my mom to the passenger side. It was like clockwork.

The last time we did this was on my parents' twentieth anniversary. Coincidentally it was a Friday and I asked for that shift off from my new job at the Wendy's nearby. Though I was born into wealth, my dad still indoctrinated me with the idea that I had to work for my own money, so when I turned fifteen he cut off my miscellaneous fund and told me to get a job. I found a liking to having a job. I hated working in fast food, of course, I had no idea who enjoyed it. Nevertheless, I found myself thinking about future careers, something I never considered. I always figured I would end up like Paris Hilton and live off my parents' wealth. Or one day my dad would confess that he worked for the mafia and offer me a position.

He didn't know I knew, of course. He always sugar coated his job when I asked him, saying that he was a salesman to important people. I wanted to bring him in for career day multiple times, but he refused. Finally, I took to finding out what he did and it didn't take long. All I had to do was go into his office and open his email. Now don't get me wrong, my dad wasn't stupid in keeping secrets, I was just incredibly good at finding them out. His email that dealt with the organization was buried deep within the Dark Web. However, I had just discovered memes about the Dark Web and wanted to find it on my own. Thus, I found out my father was a vital member in the Biancatti mafia.

Once I found out, I did my research on the Biancatti family. Lorenzo, whom my dad always referred to as Uncle Lorenzo when he was around me, was the present head of it and had been for the past decade. He was responsible for the nightclub shootings that had been going on downtown and the rapid increase in heroin in the country. He was also responsible for getting the Biancatti family into a war with an overseas organization: the Hollands. At first thought I scoffed at the name because I believed that you either had to be Italian or Irish to start a mafia, but as I read further I understood the gravity of this war. The Hollands were in charge of the European underground; they played a huge role in its economy. They didn't just deal drugs and weapons, they specialized in everything. They were the epitome of the underground and Lorenzo decided to piss them off.

It scared me shitless after I found out. Whether I knew or not, I had a target on my back. As I ate my cereal with Georgiana or studied in the library, I could fall victim to the Hollands just because of my relationship to the Biancattis. I wanted to run away at that point. I started to avoid my family and went out more, beginning my rebellious phase. I went to parties and became blackout drunk, sleeping on random sofas. After all, if I wasn't at my house I wasn't in danger, right?

My parents never said anything about this phase of mine. Instead, when I would return home, liquor on my lips and my hair in knots, all my mother would do was purse her lips and tell me good morning. My father would be at work so he would never know, and Georgiana beamed at my arrival and prepared breakfast. I felt guilty, like I was destroying the family, but at least I wasn't the one working in the mafia.