DAYS OF LUST WITH THE MAFIA BOSS

Olivia's P.O.V.

Silence was all I could hear as it grew louder in my head and darkness was all I could see as I kept my eyes shut, dreading what would happen in the next few moments. Silence; it stood as a reminder of my loneliness and seclusion.

The conversations between my parents were no longer present, the sound of footsteps scurrying across the floors as they rushed to get ready for work, did not exist anymore, and the enticing aroma of fresh coffee ceased to linger in the air every morning.

These small memories were slowly slipping away from my recollections as my parents had passed away thirteen years ago. I was ten at the time when the fatal car accident took place and was left to be taken care of by my grandparents, but they inevitably fell ill to old age, eight years later.

As anticipated, a loud jolting noise caused adrenaline to rush through my body and my stream of consciousness halted as my eyes shot open. I turned my head towards the sound and stared at the perpetrator. The dreadful alarm clock.

I sat up against the headboard of my bed and looked towards the window, watching the dust particles float aimlessly around my room in the rays of sunlight. The sound of motorists, in the bustling city of Rome, filled my ears and encouraged me to drag myself out of bed, now beginning a productive day.

After the death of my grandparents, I was overcome with despair and agony. The memories that I had of my family became too overbearing and I could no longer live in a house that I used to call a home. I was in pain and felt hopeless, but I was afraid to let the void inside of me grow darker. I was daunted by the looming fear of falling into a state of despondency.

I wanted to learn how to love and take care of myself again, so I made the decision to move out of The States and start a new part of my life in Italy.

With the money that I inherited and saved, I decided to complete my studies at The American University of Rome and receive a degree in art history. After graduating, I applied for a job at Il Museo Massimo and later successfully completed the interview process. Today marks the start of my career as an exhibition curator.

As my footsteps tread lightly across the cold beige tiles I came to a stop when I reached my dust-covered mirror. When I looked up at my reflection all I could see was a younger version of my mother. I had her light caramel brown hair that curled at the ends, near the back of my waist, and her warm olive complexion.

My eyes began to brim with tears as memories of her sweet melodic voice and smile that reached the corner of her deep blue eyes came flooding back. This was one feature that I did not share with my mother, instead, I had my father's warm and comforting light brown eyes.

I quickly blinked away my tears, refusing to let a drop fall down my cheek, and hurried to the bathroom to freshen up. I slid on a black pencil skirt then proceeded to tuck in a white button-up blouse before clasping a necklace around my neck, hoping that this simple attempt of looking presentable was adequate for my first day.

My grandmother had gifted me her golden necklace, with a heart shaped locket, that had my initials, A.A, engraved into it and enclosed the pictures of my parents from when they were infants. Very rarely do I forget to wear this necklace, it was all I had left of my family, I wanted to keep it close to my heart.

After giving my reflection one last look of approval I grabbed my belongings and rushed towards the door of my apartment. My heels met the stone covered ground as I found myself walking towards the streets of Rome. Sampietrini; the name of the type of pavement found throughout Italy, the stones, dating back to the fifteenth century, lined the streets, giving people a chance to walk through history.

My studies in art history have taught me to value and recognize the fine art and intricate details that were displayed throughout Rome. The city was alive, thriving, and vivacious; it was how I wanted to feel again.

My strides came to a stop as I reached the front entrance and pulled open the door of the museum, Il Museo Massimo.

"The great Massimo," I said to myself under my breath. The museum was beautifully constructed by an esteemed architect, under the name of Massimo. I wonder if he truly lived up to the meaning of his name, the greatest.

"Buongiorno," the receptionist greeted me, pulling myself out of my thoughts.

"Ciao, I am Olivia Fredinard, the new trainee who will be working as the curator."

I never gave much thought to my name, given that both of my parents were from Greece, my surname is of Greek origin, meaning eagle. Nothing glorious compared to the architect.

"Ah, sì, Ms. Fredinard you will have a briefing with Mr. Smith in twenty minutes." She stood from her desk and I soon followed her footsteps as she walked across the hall towards the meeting room.

Smith, I repeated in my head. Sounds like a name you would find on a label of pasta.

1

The sound of my heels tapping against the dark gray floor bounced off the beige stone walls and echoed throughout the halls. The natural sunlight radiating through the windows had casted shadows upon the meticulously carved marble sculptures. Feeling accomplished with my studies at the university, I began to recognize some of the statues as we continued our walk.

A replica of Lancellotti Discobulus, constructed during the Classical period, The Statue of Ludovisi Hermes, and the sculpture I admired most, the Girl from Anzio. My observations were interrupted as the receptionist turned the handle of the door to the meeting room, inviting me to step inside.

"Thank you..." I said, and glanced at her name badge, "...Mrs. Jackson."

"Prego!" she said with a slight smile and then quietly left the room (You're welcome).

Silence, it caught up with me again but this time I was not alone.

I turned around to face the room and I was met with deep blue eyes studying me carefully. The attentive stare belonged to a man who sat tall and proper, and his hair gleamed of golden blond as it was caught in the sunlight. He was a formal man, with crossed hands placed onto the table in front of him as his burly arms rest along the lengths of his chair.

I quickly broke eye contact, careful to not stare for a few seconds longer and walked towards the large glass table in the center of the room. I fleetingly examined the seating arrangement at the table and felt anxious not knowing where to sit as I felt his gaze following my every move.

I absolutely will not sit directly in front of him, I cannot stand the watchful look he is giving me, I thought to myself while I stood here like a complete idiot, having trouble with such a straightforward task. Why must he keep staring?

I promptly pulled out my journal and pen as I chose to sit diagonally from the observant man. Mimicking his posture, I placed my hands onto the table, straightened my back and held my head high, trying to uncover the confidence within myself.

You are a handsome man, I secretly admitted, almost feeling a sense of nervousness in his presence, but I sighed, shaking the thoughts from my head as I looked up to share a kind smile.

"Hello, I'm Olivia," I said and extended out my hand for him to shake, internally cringing and detesting myself for the slightly high pitched voice that escaped from my lips.

He looked at me with a neutral expression, not a change of emotion in his face while he examined me carefully. My hand still dangled awkwardly within the tense air between us, but only his eyes had moved, trailing down to my pending offer.

What if he doesn't understand English? I frantically questioned my attempts of being cordial with this person. Well, we are in Italy, idiota. My mind kept wondering about what to do next as I mentally face-palmed myself.

I immediately gathered what was left of my poise and tried to recall the basic Italian that I learned while studying in the university.

"Erm, ciao, mi chiamo Ara-"

He suddenly caught me by surprise as he leaned over the table and shook my hand with a firm grip.

"I understood you the first time, Ms. Olivia," he said with a smirk.

The words rolled off his tongue in perfect English, but with a slight accent that I could not seem to identify. I looked at him, my mouth agape with curiosity as a smile started to form on my lips while I shook my head.

"Then why didn't you-" I was soon interrupted when the door of the meeting room opened. An old man with a podgy body, which I am assuming is Mr. Smith, walked through the entrance wearing a beige, Italian milled wool suit and tie.

Very classy and expensive taste.

I had given him my full attention, but Mr. Smith seemed to disregard my presence as he directly looked at the blue eyed man who sat across from me.

"Patrick-" Mr. Smith spoke out in a raspy Italian accent before he was suddenly cut off.

"Yes, Patrick Van," he abruptly stood up from his chair and walked towards Mr. Smith to shake his hand, and without hesitance at that, as I stared and questioned his swift behavior. I furrowed my eyebrows in wonder, but soon dismissed the curiosity when Mr. Smith finally turned his attention towards me.

"Ms. Fredinard, it is a pleasure to have you working for us. I am looking forward to seeing you use your skills and knowledge to help better this museum."

"The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Smith." I shook his hand, and nodded with respect.

"I will be showing you and Patrick around the establishment as you two are new here. Patrick will not be working along your side, but he will be here to manage the security details."

I turned to Patrick and he shared a gentle smile as we followed Mr. Smith outside. While we walked throughout the gallery my eyes swept across the numerous pieces of art, but landed on a man who stood before the marble statues.

He examined the works of art scrupulously; I watched as his eyes trailed over every curve, crevice, and detail that the sculptures had to offer. The voice of Mr. Smith, introducing the pieces of art, drowned out of my head as this peculiar man now captured my attention.

He did not seem like he worked at the museum as he did not wear a name badge like the other employees, and the doors have yet to open to the public, it was not possible for him to be a guest. Who is he?

One would believe that a visitor of an art gallery will enter with a sparkling wonder within their eyes, but this man circled around a statue with a stare so stern and solemn. My gaze trailed from the sculpture to his presence, his hands were hidden in the pockets of his pants and his black shirt hugged his well built arms and broad-shoulders generously.

With an attraction towards his face, I observed a faint layer of stubble that lined his strong and sharp jawline, and his wavy short hair glimmered a dark chocolate color under the fluorescent lights. His eyes were the darkest shade of brown, a shade to be defined as a warm tone on the color spectrum, yet his glare was cold and bitter.

His aura was intimidating, his tall stature - domineering, and his face was as lifeless as the statues before him.

But he's alluring, I thought to myself.

As if he could sense my intrigue, he glared towards my direction and his eyes pierced my light brown ones, making me a prisoner under his gaze. I felt my cheeks redden and bit my bottom lip as I quickly turned the other direction, not wanting to investigate further into his mystery, and returned to following Mr. Smith and Patrick on this excruciatingly long tour.

Olivia's P.O.V.

The rest of the tour did not last for long, I parted ways with Patrick and Mr. Smith as they went into an office to discuss the security details for the museum. Now alone, I found myself walking aimlessly through the galleries and gazed at the paintings that were framed against the walls.

I stopped in front of a canvas that exhibited a landscape of wildflowers in a field. The thin brushstrokes lined out every detail, the colors created a vivid scene, and the sunlight from the windows had helped this painting come to life.

It was elegant, natural, and radiant. It's impressionism.

The next painting that I came across was unusual and eccentric. The objects and figures painted on the canvas were not something one would find in reality, but instead, from a whimsical imagination.

Expressionism? Or maybe surrealism.

As I came across the last painting, I noticed it was very different from the others. It was not extravagant; it was minimalistic. Not colorful, but plain. It's boring, I thought to myself as I stared at the black canvas with one white dot in the center. Definitely modern art. How do these things sell for millions of dollars?

Taking one last glance around the room, I noticed that some pieces were tilted out of place and one canvas was slightly protruding from its frame, almost like it was removed. It was strange, the previous curator must have been fired given that they did an awful job at rearranging these pieces.

I sighed and roamed over to the next gallery, but stopped in my tracks when I saw the odd man in black from earlier. He made brief eye contact with me but then directed his attention towards another sculpture.

How long has he been here? I asked myself, wondering if I should make an approach. After much contemplation and arguments within myself, I decided to make a genial introduction, as it would be best to not be a stranger to a possible coworker.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" I said while nodding towards the statue that he was looking at.

I walked closer to stand next to him, mindful to keep my distance, as he then turned to gaze at me, but decided to keep his lips sealed and his voice a mystifying secret.

Great, I sighed and instinctively showed off a timid smile as to fill in the void between us, but I had no doubts that it came off as awkward.

"It's called the Girl from Anzio." My nervous mouth rambled on while a part of me died inside. I had hoped that this reticent man would put the other features of his face to use, but his eyes continued to glare down at me judgingly, while his mouth still had no reply.

This is truly embarrassing.

"Where is the man that you were with earlier?" he asked abruptly in a gruff Italian accent.

And so he speaks, I scoffed to myself while my eyes widened with shock as he caught me by surprise.

"Smith," he said with impatience and irritability within his voice.

What was with the attitude? I turned towards him with a scowl and bit my tongue to keep unkind words from slipping through my lips. I crossed my arms over my chest, tilted my head up to catch a view of this very tall man, and decided to return the same harsh manner that he had given me.

"Mr. Smith is in the security room showing a new employee around," I sneered back at him.

Without another word, or a simple 'thank you', I watched as the man turned around and started walking towards the office that Mr. Smith had entered earlier. I stared at his back in disbelief, but frowned, realizing that I was off to a bad start on my first day here.

"Men," I scoffed under my breath. I had grumbled a few words of bitterness to myself, but calmed as I now stood alone with a statue who had a more peaceful presence than him, although, the silence was soon stolen from me.

"Olivia!" A cheery voice called out my name. I looked over my shoulder and smiled, seeing that the expression of joy had belonged to a familiar face: Patrick.

"Would you like to grab some coffee with me? There is a café just down the street," he offered.

"Sure, that would be nice," I replied with hesitance as I was unsure of going out with someone that I had just met, but my starving stomach had suppressed my worries.

"Great! It's a place that I frequent often, I'm sure you'll enjoy it," he said, giving me a toothy grin.

As we were walking towards the front entrance of the museum, the sound of disgruntled voices, muffled through the walls, had caught our attention. I glanced through the window of the office door and noticed Mr. Smith and the ill-mannered man arguing in Italian. My brows furrowed, seeing that my new boss looked scared out of his mind. What did you do?

"Is everything alright?" I asked Patrick, seeing that instead of curiosity, his face was veiled with displeasure.

"Yes, I apologize, everything's fine. We should get going," he answered and immediately displaced his glower with a slight smile.

I was relieved once we reached the café, finally getting the chance to catch my breath as my five-foot-seven height struggled to keep up with Patrick's long and hurried strides.

"Order anything you'd like, I'll pay," he insisted.

"Are you sure?" I asked, completely out of breath and feeling embarrassed that my hatred for being active has now been revealed.

"Of course," he grinned and nodded his head.

"I will just have the caffè freddo," I replied while eyeing the delicious refreshment on the menu.

"Would you like to have a seat? I saw an open table in the corner of the café, you can rest while I handle our order," he said with a light chuckle, eyeing my body that was practically leaning on the counter for support.

"Good idea, I'll go do that, but not because I'm winded, I just want to make sure that no one steals those seats," I jested while glancing at the only other customer as she left through the door.

I smiled at him and turned to walk towards the area that he suggested. Although, I had found it to be quite odd that he would choose this lonely corner, as it was a lovely day to sit outside, but I suppose this will do.

I happily sat down at the table and became at ease while I watched him place our order. Patrick's benevolence was a breath of fresh air compared to my encounter with that unpleasant man from earlier. I had wanted to forget about that moment, but the image of him continued to plague my mind, I even feared that I was finding that man to be enticing.

After some time, Patrick slowly walked over to the table, attempting to balance the plate and cups that he held in his hands, and denying my help once I saw him struggling. What a silly man, I thought in amusement as I watched him concentrate on the swaying liquid that threatened to spill with one wrong move.

"You made it," I teased once he successfully reached the table.

"I wasn't sure if you ate breakfast yet, so I bought you some cornetti." He sighed in relief as he took a seat.

A gentleman as well, I noted to myself.

"Thank you," I said gratefully and wasted no time to indulge in these delights.

Patrick was right, I indeed found these sweet treats to be enjoyable, but he caught my attention as he scrunched his face in disgust after taking a sip from his mug.

"I had thought that I should give their espresso a second chance, but the Italians can never do anything right. Not strong enough, it's a shame," he said in a displeasing tone as he set down his cup.

I shook my head and laughed, "I am assuming you're not from here if you're making deprecatory remarks about the Italians."

"I'm from the United States," he muffled out while taking a bite from his bread.

"But your accent..." I trailed on, questioning him.

"I picked up an accent when I moved to Italy and tried to learn the language," he answered and looked away from me, turning his gaze towards the window.

"When did you move here?" I asked.

"About four years ago. I was twenty-two when I first got here," he replied and I nodded my head slowly, noticing that we had both moved to Rome in the same year.

"Are you going to eat that?" he asked in my silence while nodding towards my unfinished cornetti.

"No, you can have it," I said with a laugh as I was pulled away from my thoughts.

"Would you like my drink as well?" I asked with a smirk, seeing that he eyed my iced coffee and answered with a sheepish nod

We were not in the café for long after Patrick finished eating. Our curiosities for each other became excited as we strolled through the streets, I had even told him about my studies at the university. He had asked what encouraged me to pursue art history, and I couldn't help but think back to my mother, as she was the reason why. I told him that growing up my mother had taught me to be curious, to wonder, and to love; I found all three aspects in art.

He had taken an interest in my past, and started to ask more questions about my mom, but I couldn't bring myself to tell him about the accident, that she is no longer here; that she is dead. Instead, I told him about how lovely she was, how she appreciated and admired the small things in life, and how she was not only a mother, but a teacher, my best friend.

I saw a glint of emotion in his deep blue eyes as I finished talking about her. Perhaps, sympathy? Or, sadness?

I was on the verge of asking him about his own family, but I was pulled away from my thoughts as he suddenly began to speak.

"Where do you live?" he asked.

I looked at him in confusion as the question was unexpected, but noticing my perplexed expression, he cleared his throat.

"Uh, I meant it is getting late, I can walk you home if you'd like?"

I looked around and noticed that it was getting dark as the sun was starting to set, casting a warm orange glow upon the city buildings.

"I don't live too far from here, but I will need to go back to the office to grab some paperwork," I answered, accepting his offer.

"I'll come with you, if you don't mind."

I smiled and nodded at him as we both began to walk towards the direction of the museum. Finally, after struggling to keep up with his strides once again, we reached the building, but he stopped in his tracks and fell behind.

"I'm going to wait outside," he said, taking in our surroundings.

"Sure, I'll just be out in a moment," I replied and walked through the entrance.

Silence filled the museum as I noticed that no one was around, the fluorescent lights were dimmed and the corridors were no longer bright from the sun's radiance, it was quite the eerie scene.

"Ms. Fredinard?" I gasped when I heard my name called out. I turned towards the reception desk and noticed Mrs. Jackson sitting there.

"Hi! Hello! I'm so sorry, I thought that I was alone" I laughed nervously with a racing heart and a hand placed over my chest.

"Buona sera, I apologize for the scare. I just wanted to inform you that the museum will be closing soon," she smiled apologetically.

"I will just need to grab some paperwork that I left behind in the office and I promise I will be out of your hair shortly," I spoke quickly.

"No worries, cara, take your time." She returned a kind nod as I awkwardly fast walked towards the office.

Mrs. Jackson was a warmhearted elderly woman, her smile almost reminded me of my mother's: sweet, cordial, and genuine.

I continued to hurry towards the room as I did not want to make Mrs. Jackson stay longer at work than she needed to. Once I gathered my papers and read over the list of names of my soon-to-be clients, I suddenly heard a loud thud down the hallway.

I softly placed my hand over the knob and pushed the office door slowly, just enough to peek through the small crevice. After not hearing a single sound during the seconds that passed by, I quietly exited the room and started to walk down the hall. Expecting to see her delightful face, I turned the corner with a smile, wanting to wish her a good night, but it soon vanished once I noticed that the reception desk was empty.

"Mrs. Jackson?" I called out quietly and glanced over the hallways to see if she was there. Nothing. I then listened for her heels walking against the hard cold ground, wondering if she was roaming through the galleries. Silence.

I made my way towards the reception desk, but instantly stopped when I noticed a dark substance pooling around the edge of the wooden table.

"Mrs. Jackson," I said faintly, almost inaudibly.

My breath was caught in my dry, constricted throat as I walked closer, not knowing what I was going to see; not prepared for what I was going to find.

I came to a stop once my shoes reached the edge of the wooden desk and took a deep breath as I peered over the counter. My eyes were pulled towards the figure on the ground, and consequently, my heart stopped beating.

My peripheral vision had turned black, and my sight was only focused on the lifeless body that lied before me. This was no longer Mrs. Jackson. What is a human without their soul? This is only a body: no mind, no emotion, no feelings.

I felt my hands begin to tremble, and my legs became stiff, threatening to give out beneath me at any second. The rest of my limbs had soon followed that dreadful feeling as numbness was now spreading throughout my body.

I could not think.

I could not feel.

I could not hear.

I could only see.

And so I saw, and I looked.

I looked at Mrs. Jackson's spiritless and perished body. As I kneeled beside her, my knees came in contact with the dark red viscous blood. My hand lightly found its way towards her cheek and I observed her carefully as a circular wound now marked her forehead.

"Patrick," I said under my breath, feeling my eyes brim with tears.

"Patrick," I managed to croak out in a raspy voice.

Mrs. Jackson needs help.

"Patrick!" I yelled out.

I stood to my feet, blood now stained my hands and slowly dripped down my leg from the ends of my skirt, and I looked around the gallery that was once beautiful and lively, but now felt ominous. Sinister.

"Olivia what's wrong? I heard you-" Patrick looked at me in horror once he noticed the blood that stained my body.

I placed my hand on my forehead, feeling lightheaded, but shuddered as I felt liquid sliding down the side of my brow. Blood is on my hands, and now my face, I gripped my hair in frustration and fear. Her blood is on me. I crossed my arms around my waist and clawed at my blouse, hugging my wavering frame.

"Olivia, what happened? Are you hurt?" he questioned me worriedly, but I couldn't bring myself to answer, I only wanted to leave this horrid scene.

Patrick gripped my arm and examined me as his eyes roamed over my body frantically, looking for any signs of wounds.

I am not the one who is injured.

"Mrs. Jackson," I breathed out.

Patrick turned his head towards the desk and his eyes found what had instilled fear within me.

"You have to help her, Patrick."

"Please, she needs to go back home to her family. You need to help her. We can save her," I spoke through shallow breaths.

"Olivia, look at me. You are panicking, you need to stay calm. She is dead; there is nothing we can do to save her and you know that," he frowned.

Patrick then turned his attention towards the body and swiftly pulled out a gun from the inside of his suit. I stared at the man in terror and stumbled away as my mind raced with thoughts that had turned this tenderhearted person into a possible suspect. Is he involved in this?

Noticing my sudden movements, he grabbed my arm and forced me to kneel beside him, behind the desk, as if to take cover from more danger to come.

"I did not kill her, Olivia," he said in a stern voice while peeking around the wall of the desk.

"Where did you get the gun?" I nervously asked him while tears began to fall from my face.

"Work," he simply replied with a single word that had only made me even more frightened.

"You need to stay here. I have to check the hallways."

I shook my head hysterically, not wanting to be alone, and tried to reach out to him as I stared at the dead body beside me. Suddenly, the sound of an object shattering onto the ground had made us paralyzed.

Patrick held a vigilant look across his eyes and pointed his gun into the darkness. I desperately wanted to escape, but my feeble legs and heavy heart had kept me anchored through terror as this violent night had now changed the course of my life.

Olivia's P.O.V.

The museum was still; the paintings and sculptures had gone into a deep slumber, restoring their beauty throughout the closing hours of the night. Only our tremulous breaths could be heard as our eyes scanned the many galleries, searching for the hidden presence amongst us. What I once thought was a beautiful statue, was now a dark, grim silhouette, who stepped into the spotlight of the moon and revealed itself as a violent man.

He had suddenly reached out towards the artwork surrounding him, smashing delicate pieces against the ground and tearing paintings from their frames. The artworks, which have served as a source of inspiration and creativity for others, have now become his own personal pleasure of destruction, and my greatest nightmare.

This man is in need of medical attention, he is mentally ill.

"Patrick, you need to stop him before he hurts himself," I said in a whisper as I flinched hearing another statue shatter into pieces.

"Stand behind me, Olivia," he said with his eyes and gun focused on the deranged madman.

Suddenly, at the sound of our voices, the man directed his attention towards us, and I placed my hand over Patrick's shoulder, gripping his jacket, wanting to pull us back, away from this lunatic's line of sight.

"Where is it?" the man yelled out, releasing a vase from his ruinous hands.

"Tell me where it is!" he demanded while scowling at us.

I stood in complete shock, not understanding what the museum could possess that this man was in dire need of. As his growing impatience grew more terrorizing, he reached for a gun in the waistband of his pants and fired multiple shots into the air, forcing Patrick and I to take cover behind a stone column.

"We need to call someone. We need to call the police," I gasped frantically.

"The police will not help us here, Olivia," he spoke calmly and unloaded his gun, counting the bullets that remained.

I looked at him in bewilderment with tears streaming down my face. His words were of the same irrational degree as the madman's actions, and I feared for my life as I now felt alone in this troubling situation.

Unexpectedly, the shrill of tires screeching outside of the building had pulled me away from my dreadful thoughts. I placed a shielding hand in front of my eyes as the bright headlights from the cars pierced through the windows and illuminated the interior of the museum, forcing the unsettling shadows to go into hiding.

We are being surrounded. Panic rose within me at the sound of car doors slamming shut, but Patrick acted as if this was just another ordinary evening of his life. He muttered words of frustration to himself, and protectively stood before me as a group of men barged through the entrance doors.

I stood on the tips of my toes and peered over Patrick's shoulder, seeing that this new group had weapons of their own. Their sharp-eyed glares landed on the two of us, but they soon diverted their attention to the crazed madman, who was now shouting harsh words in Italian.

"Figlio di puttana!" The madman raised his gun once more, but before he could pull the trigger, a gunshot rang through the air. I watched with horror as the man took his last breath before collapsing and joining his scattered mess along the ground.

"Get this body out of here," a man from the group spoke and redirected his glare towards us.

"She has nothing to do with this," Patrick defended and held out his arm in front of my trembling body.

"Are you lying to me, Patrick?" the man asked with a smirk while slowly approaching us.

They know each other?

"It's a shame that you are here trying to infiltrate our business, but bringing one of your filthy whores along with you, to do your dirty work? That's something new," the man laughed in our faces.

I stared at the blue-eyed person who stood beside me, this was not the amicable and mellow acquaintance who took me out to the café, this man was different; he was dark and menacing. Who are you?

"Just let her walk away. That is all I ask," Patrick begged and shielded me from their weapons as I became trapped between him and a wall.

"We'll let Louis decide what we should do with her," the man smiled smugly and stepped aside as the echoing sound of footsteps emerged from the entryway.

The dark figure was accompanied by shadows until it stepped under the fluorescent lights, and my gaze widened in disbelief, seeing that unpleasant familiar face, who I had encountered hours ago. For a fleeting moment, as he caught a glimpse of me, an evanescent look of shock was displayed across those cruel brown eyes, sharing the same feeling of surprise as I.

"There are three of them, Boss, but we killed one," the man informed to the face that I can finally label with a name. Louis.

"Thank you, Chris. I will handle these two," Louis spoke to his partner in crime, but never once peeled his eyes away from mine.

Following orders, Chris stepped away and rejoined his group, who was now dealing with the dead body. Louis's eyes had narrowed against my own, studying me deeply with a spine-chilling curiosity. I had shifted my weight and gulped down a burden of fear as his gaze trailed down from my face and towards my body, observing the blood along my clothes and skin.

He was a man who operated on a time of his own, as he leisurely spent these frightening moments studying every inch of my being, and completely ignored his group who await for more commands. I was terrified under his gaze, and undoubtedly, he had sensed so, but he continued this intimidating observation of his, surely finding satisfaction with the fear that he inspired within me.

"Louis, I've identified the intruder who triggered the security system. He's one of Carlos's men." A voice announced from the wrecked gallery, leading Louis's eyes to find their way back towards my face, but I quickly looked away as I could not bear the sight of him.

"Bring the body to the car, John. I want to send our friends a message," Louis replied, and I could almost sense a cruel smile against his lips.

I hid behind Patrick's back once again and bowed my head, refusing to witness the gruesome sight of John dragging the body of a man who I had seen alive, just minutes ago. I felt a warm tear slide down my cheek as it has been thirteen years since I have encountered death, but it is here with me once again, and I worried that I was now next.

"Patrick, lower your weapon. You aren't going to shoot me in front of her, she has seen enough today, no?" Louis spoke in a taunting manner. I raised my head as he had mentioned me, but I furrowed my brows at the continuance of his mind games, watching him pull out a box of cigarettes from the inside of his suit.

"I had thought that I caught a glimpse of you in these halls this morning, but I refused to believe that you were foolish enough to step foot in my territory again," Louis sighed in disappointment while bringing a lighter towards the end of his cigarette.

"I see you have brought an accomplice with you this time," he added and turned to look at me, but an exhale of smoke had prevented our eyes from meeting again.

"Now, explain to me why I shouldn't let the two of you join Jackson down there on the floor," he provoked and raised his brows at us, impatiently waiting for a response.

Even if my mind had tried its hardest, it would be difficult for me to form a reply. The state of affairs between these men was beyond my knowledge and I was truly perplexed to understand what situation I had gotten myself into. I turned to Patrick with an apprehensive look across my face, expecting him to answer for us, but his jaw was clenched, only responding with a scowl of anger.

"Or, if you have nothing to tell me, you could just start begging for my mercy," Louis shrugged, narrowing his eyes at me. My shoulders heaved through alarm at the sound of his threat, but Patrick was neither frightened nor concerned, he was completely unbothered.

Finally, his weapon was lowered, although he still kept a baleful finger against the trigger. I was relieved with his compliance, but Patrick scoffed and shook his head, almost laughing to himself, which had only made matters worse.

"You Italians come up with many shitty rules and traditions, but you never follow through with them," Patrick said while shaking his head.

"You honor family, yet yours is falling apart. There are rumors that your father had multiple mistresses, but they've slowly disappeared. I'm assuming you have killed them all so that your mother wouldn't find out."

"Am I correct?" Patrick asked with a raised eyebrow.

"And, trust is very important to you Italians, yes? It's unfortunate that you have a mole amongst you; this person has been causing you problems with other mafia families. The Carlos's have always been one step ahead of you lately," Patrick chuckled while shaking his head.

They are a part of the mafia? I wondered, my lips now separated through shock.

"So, Louis, I'm curious. What makes you think that I'll give up any information to you? There is a word that you Italians live by, something that you hold so close, near and dear to your heart," Patrick spoke in a condescending tone.

"Hmm, what is it?" he contemplated in an imperious manner. I watched with a quizzical look as Patrick started to pace around slowly, tapping the muzzle of his gun against his temple, pretending to think of the word that he obviously knew, but enjoying every second as he taunted Louis.

"Ah, yes," he sighed, and stopped in his tracks with a sly grin displayed across his mouth before speaking his final word.

"Omertà."

Before the last syllable could roll off of Patrick's tongue, Louis's wrath was quick to take control. Patrick dodged a powerful punch, but another fist had unfortunately made strong contact with his jaw. In retaliation, Patrick attempted to hit Louis with the back of his gun, but his wrist was suddenly caught, merely inches away from Louis's face.

I stood there in shock as Louis knocked the gun out of Patrick's hand and kicked the back of his leg, causing him to fall and kneel onto the ground. My heart was racing as I looked at Patrick's face; a lump was starting to form on his forehead, and I was certain that he had difficulty seeing as his left eye was beginning to swell, but just like me, blood had now stained his skin.

Louis took the cigarette from between his lips and pressed the hot burning end against Patrick's neck, scorching his skin, while gladly watching him wince in pain. He then revealed his possession of a gun and dug the cold metal tip into the back of Patrick's skull, towering over him with power and dominance. My heart cried out for him, seeing the pain that he was in, but it shattered as he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, no longer having the strength to fight back.

Louis is going to kill him.

"Stop," I tried to yell, but only emitted a soft mutter.

Please, do not kill him.

"Stop!" I shrieked as my voice cracked and lips trembled. The group of men instantly turned their attention towards me, astonished by my audacity to speak out, but I cowered under their glares and stumbled backwards in fright.

Louis's jaw tensed as he scowled at me, but soon, he turned his attention towards Patrick and shoved his body towards the ground, leading his enemy to bellow in pain as he was too weak to save himself from the fall. Followed by his men, Louis began to walk towards the exit, but as he passed by, those brown eyes had shared a murderous glare with me.

"Place Patrick in the van, but bring the girl to me," Louis demanded over his shoulder, ordering the two guards who still remained in the gallery.

1

I quickly rushed over to Patrick and gently turned him onto his side before the brawny men made their way towards me. He was beaten badly as I moved his hair, now sticky with sweat and blood, away from his face and saw that he had multiple cuts and bruises.

"Patrick," I breathed out with tears threatening to fall from my eyes.

"Are you going to be okay?" I asked softly and reached for his hand, but I was suddenly ripped away from his grasp and yelled out in pain, feeling one of the vile men pull me by my hair.

"Don't fucking touch her!" Patrick yelled through gritted teeth, with spits and splatters of blood painting the floor beneath him.

The man forced my hands behind my back and held my wrists tightly as he bounded them together, with what felt like hard plastic against my aching skin. I turned my saddened gaze towards Patrick and saw him struggling against his own guard, but before I could call out to him, my vision went black.

What is happening to me?

I blinked furiously to assure myself that my mind was not playing games with me. I shut my eyes tight and opened them, but all I could see was darkness. Moments later, as I was trying to make sense of this all, I felt a burning, itching and tightening discomfort around my neck. This wretched pig has placed a burlap sack over my head. I started to breathe heavily as panic and realization settled within, leading me to choke and cough up my own spit, while my rapid heart refused to ease.

I started to thrash against the man who held me captive, wanting to fight back as I was afraid of my peace being stolen from me once again. When his grip became tighter on my arm I forcefully stepped my heel against his foot, making sure that the stiletto dug into his shoe. He had grumbled in pain, but it was not enough for him to let go, instead, it had only angered him more.

"Vaffanculo puttana," I heard him seethe next to my ear.

He pushed me towards the exit where wickedness awaits, forcing me to leave my untroubled life behind, something that I had worked so hard on. I had no other choice than to surrender to this torment, but the thought of a desolate future caused tears to fall from both pain and horror.

Breathe. Just breathe. I repeated to myself many times but failed to regain my composure.

As the front doors opened, a rush of cold air sliced at my skin and welcomed me into this miserable night. Although, I was satisfied that I had shared this misery with someone else, as the guard behind me dragged his injured foot along the pavement with a slight limp to his strides, due to the pain that I had proudly caused.

God bless Louboutin.

My staggered steps along the uneven sidewalk came to a stop as the man suddenly held me still before shoving me inside of a car. My tainted skin, covered with the dried blood of a dead woman and an injured man, came in contact with cold leather seats just as I heard a door slam shut beside me.

The burlap sack, still tightly placed over my head, obstructed my view, but I did not need to see to know that Louis was nearby. The faint scent of a cigarette mixed with a crisp and aromatic cologne lingered in the car; the air around me was frigid and filled with tension, but the feeling of being watched caused my skin to burn, and a familiar, but harsh and forbidding voice had made my lungs ache after holding my breath.

"Bring us back to the estate," Louis uttered apathetically, as if the events that took place moments ago never happened.

The estate, I repeated those daunting words in my head.

He is leading me into his possession and control; forcing me to leave my freedom and sense of morale behind; dragging me into his barbaric world of violence, inhumanity, and death. I was no longer surrounded by silence; the lonely void that I once felt was now filled with the presence of despicable men: felons, criminals, murderers-- the Italian Mafia.