This shall be an Alternate Universe about Wong Yukhei as a Capomandamento from Sicily itself, the genesis of The Mafia, and you, a demanding older sister in desperate need of your younger siblings' return under the protection of your arms.
You've always pondered how inanimate objects come to life. Not physically, but symbolically. As unapproachable your knowledge was about your family's blameworthiness, your curious lips have always brought you to bearings moreover than your ingenuity. Wherefore, your feet were above the soil of an offshore edifice concerning your male siblings.
Your steps were quite vigorous, and your nose crinkled ever so slightly whenever your tenacious heart rumbled deeply inside your ribcage. The metal soles of your unfurled white shoes resonated throughout the astonishingly serene environment of a supposedly 'underworld'. Your feet ceased their aggression when the ambitious peepers of two bestial ruffians cornered your impudence.
Wretched hoodlums these harnessed men are. You directed the revolver you've been grasping the entire interval onwards their foreheads, and they did the same to yours, but with primed M60s. As the elder sister of two young boys who were instigated to worm in a macrocosm of the lawless, the world of loan sharks, sex and drug trafficking, prostitution, moneylenders, unwarranted business transactions, hitmen, and various, more disreputable misdemeanors, a pair of brawny pinheads will never petrify you.
"Hand me entrance, or I'll interject the squadrons here." One of the mobsters had laughed like you were nothing but a little darling nibbling on something that you can't digest. Realistically, you were, but disharmony cannot preclude you from safeguarding your kinfolks, not even these hellions.
Smirking as if distinguishing something you were naive of, in which you were within every posture you place yourself in, publicised a sentence for the three of you. "I certainly disapprove of the law enforcements to possibly dispatch this enshrined, substantial place, so, I'll let you in."
There was a perceptible quality in his pitch, it was enriched with levity, dishonor, and rancor. Overlooking your lack of indebtedness, you entered through the door while placing your revolver back inside the secured socket for the insubstantial pistol around your thigh. Once you looked up, you were reasonably the most terrified little lassie on earth.
A broad male was committing sexual intercourse with a- presumably- moll floundered over the lackluster sturdy metal escritoire like a vertebrate fucked mad. Her red locks stuck to her cheekbones like wet glue as the drenched man behind her held the fleshy latitude of her waist with a forcible grip. You held your breath, and did your best to conceal the emotions of antipathy you felt beholding two human beings fucking.
Why on earth are my brothers entangled with these, these malignant spirits?
Your eyes drifted away onto anything else that peeked your interest, like the painting hung on the wall of an inadequately dressed maid milking a cow. If it weren't beneath the occupancy of a surpassingly dashing mobster, you could have fancied the composition like how you examine diversified art representations ravishingly.
Much to your displeasure, the two have ceased the contingency of another lap. In which the moll came first and the Lothario the second. How thankful were you when he finally yanked the zipper of his trousers up and junctioned the ends of his belt together. The camp follower airheadedly dressed herself before misstepping on her way to the closed double doors.
You dismissed her behavior and stared perpendicular at the closed-lid rascal. He respired tremendously, encircling the prolonged stride of the flimsy textile over his injured, slender knuckles. He glowered upon your unsure form impeccably for a britle extent of time, and wonderfully, you were inconvenienced.
