In the labyrinthine underbelly of the mafia, Romero Zaviero has been an enigma. As the only Made Man who seldom graces the high-profile gatherings of the Cosa Nostra's elite, his inscrutable presence looms in the darkest corners. His motives are con...
"I respectfully decline to answer because I honestly believe my answer might tend to incriminate me."- Joey Gallo.
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My eyes snap open as I'm roused by the faint sound of light footsteps entering the room. In an instant, I'm on my feet, the covers slipping off me. My muscles, once weakened and unresponsive, now respond with surprising strength. It is as if my body has remembered what it means to be ready.
My instincts take over, overriding any inkling of thinking. Every fiber of my being thrums with awareness, a primal sense of the situation electrifying my senses.
As I carefully coax my legs into action, there's a slight hesitance, a natural wariness born from my recent paralysis, ensuring I don't falter as I rise.
And there, standing at the threshold is a figure that takes a moment to register in my bewildered mind. Recognition dawns like a gradual awakening, revealing the face of my sister, Aiyla.
Time has woven its intricate tapestry of change upon her features, transforming her into a woman of poise and maturity. Regrettably, she mirrors the visage of our late mother—a poignant reminder of a woman whose worth she failed to fully appreciate, always swaying in favor of our father, even at our mother's expense.
Memories of our stormy relationship come flooding back—an intense connection marred by constant disagreements. She was always firmly under our father's sway, while I fought tirelessly to dispel the looming shadows of his manipulation that plagued our family.
A daughter blindly loyal to her father, oblivious to the pain our mother endured.
But, this is not a time to dwell on the past, and my focus is immediately redirected to the present—a perilous present laden with uncertainty.
I steel myself, maintaining a cold and reserved demeanor to hide the seething anger that courses through my veins.
Aiyla's involvement in my forced return to New York, a place I despised and vowed never to come back to, has ignited a fierce resentment within me.
As she stands before me, looking composed and indifferent, I bite back the urge to lash out and demand answers. The memories of our tumultuous past add fuel to the fire of my anger, yet I maintain tight control, like a smoldering ember on the verge of ignition.
Aiyla's words slice through the tense air, and she raises a corner of her lips, a subtle glint as she takes a step closer. "Nice hair color, Kiyana," she says, her voice carrying a condescending tone. "It really brings out your eyes."
My fingers subconsciously graze the long strands of burgundy hair that cascade down my back, stopping above my ass.
When I left home, I transformed myself, much like a snake shedding its old skin. I grew out my hair, dyed it this striking red, and pursued changes that reached beyond mere appearance. Fillers, liposuction, new tattoos, and fresh piercings all deliberate choices to reshape myself into someone almost unrecognizable, someone free from the hold of the Cosa Nostra.
