Maxine Davenport was living a quiet life with her Irish grandmother in England, completing her degree in criminology when she was plunged into the darkness she was running away from.
Valentino DeLuca. A name no one is brave enough to say even in the...
I gripped the knife firmly under the table as I leered straight at my father who sat, much to my annoyance, right across me on the wooden chair with his pet bodyguard looming behind him. I tipped my chin up into a sharpened edge, taunting him. Three years have changed a lot of things. I'm not his doting daughter anymore. At least, not after he revealed his true demonic side.
Sometimes it surprises me how quickly my love for my dearest athair morphed into absolute hatred. I know hatred is a strong word, but I'm not exaggerating. I hate myfather. Soon after discovering his crooked nature, I immediately realised that I was already too deep into this world without even realising. I might have escaped from Ireland and found solace here in London with my old widowed grandmother, but I will forever be clutched into this world.
Soon after uncovering my mafia ties, I sensed the unsolved answers I sought were entangled within the mafia. Sure enough, they were. After much digging, I found an article on the web about her death. My mother's death, thirteen years ago, was a product of a "deal gone wrong" with the draconian Turkish mob. The catch here was that their main "target" was I, but my mother took the bullet for me. She died protecting me. She was snatched from me because of my own father, who is currently looking down at me nonchalantly, I might add.
" Now young lady, your athair is here to meet you. He's cancelled all his work commitments to be here with you on this special occasion. Stop being nasty and talk to your father," my grandmother said in a thick Irish accent.
Yeah, right. Work commitments. We all know what kind of "work" my father is interested in.
"Mhamó, please. If he is so keen to celebrate my birthday with me ask him where he had been the past years?"I snorted looking directly in his eyes.
He cleared his throat and motioned his "bodyguard" to come forward. His hulk like protector produced a jet black Prada shoulder bag from a giant paper bag and placed it on the table in front of me before going back to his stand behind my father.
"What is the meaning of this?" I asked in a firm voice.
"Can't a father gift his precious daughter something on her birthday?" He shrugged.
"Normal people, yes. But, we're not a normal family. We are an organ of a sinister organised body of criminals. We don't do normal." I snapped.
I was losing my temper with each passing second. I knew there was some disguised personal advantage for this abrupt family reunion and it was driving me crazy.
"How I missed your snarky comebacks, my sweet sweet Maxine." He cooed." You are right. I'm here for a reason."
There you go. My warped father is pure evil. At least this can now be broadcasted as a proven fact.
" You are getting married in two months." He said coolly.
"EXCUSE ME," I shot up from the chair, the blade of the cold knife digging my palm drawing out blood.
Pure rage clouded my mind. My nostrils flared and I gritted my teeth from the effort to calm myself and not wake up the neighbors in the middle of the night. Not everyone's amoral father comes knocking at the door at one in the morning.
I felt my grandmother rush to my side, slowly rubbing my back but my eyes were fixated on him. How could he? The last time we met, he dropped the mafia bomb and now the effing marriage. He doesn't even try to cushion the impact of such sudden bulletins.
"Maxine, you were promised to be his wife the very day you were born. Your union with him will not only strengthen the Irish mob, but it will also protect you. He will protect you."
I felt hot anger burning inside me. It held all the power of a wildfire while flames danced in the pit of my stomach. I coiled my hands into a fist, the knife impossibly piercing into her palm. Fat drops of blood were now dripping on the floor but that was least of my concerns right now. I'm not suicidal, no, but in the case of blood versus freedom, I'll choose my liberty over everything else. Arranged marriage in the mafia world was not uncommon. It was, in fact, an age-old tradition. I've read a lot about them in the articles I found on the web but it never occurred to me that I would be shackled in the same way.
"Father, I will NOT get married to some balding beer-bellied old killer with paedophilic tendencies. You cannot do this to me." I screamed.
"Oh, he is far from ugly, don't worry about that. In fact, you might know him. His name is Valentino DeLuca."
