Assassin Academy: The Duchess Grave

prologue

Malis, Melior: I require myself nor to be equal to the best, but to be better than the bad.

You know being born into a mafia changes you. 

Not just because you’ve been kidnapped more than you would rather mention or the fact you have a whole wall full of pink knives that you got as a gift for your seventh birthday. That definitely doesn’t scream, ‘Normal teenage girl!’ with pink streamers and bright fairy lights.

But maybe because being around death and peril,  so much at such a shapeable, moldable, imprintable, age releases a primal urge inside you, one you wouldn't expect. 

A lion doesn’t think before biting into the neck of a majestic gazelle, a human being doesn’t think for a moment before squashing a bug between their cruel hands. But when I pull the trigger from the top of the building I perch on in a snug all black suit, I think about the pregnant women who falls to the ground, the baby in her stomach who won't live to make it to the hospital, the child standing across the street who will remember this scene for the rest of her life. I think about that, and yet my finger still pulls down on the trigger. 

And all I dare give any concern about is who will take the credit. My brother of course. The headaches I get everyday are untenable, as you might imagine.

Oh he’ll tell all his friends and colleagues how his eighteen year old baby sister shot down the next air of the rival gang who killed our aunt, but all they’ll hear is. "Princeton's little sister who he trained, killed the future problem.” They’ll actually say the ‘pretty one’ in comparison to my younger sister, sixteen year old, Rosa.

The anger I feel building into my body is only contained by all my other feelings locked into the weight onto my chest. Yes, he trained me, yes he had a hand in raising me but do they not understand that even my own mother was against me? 

Waking up everyday at six o’ clock at age fifteen to go on a run, listen in on all my fathers meetings and hit the gym for four hours a day until I could run a mile without breaking a sweat, jump across buildings easily, not a pop in any limb, and be fast enough to become a blur to the human eye. That was my choice. My prerogative. My work. But all these sexist ‘men’ will hear is ‘Princeton’s little sister.’

The thought makes me lift my machine gun in my hands before forcefully throwing it onto the roof behind me. Smashing it into hundreds of little pieces, some even flying off the road and onto the ground below with another crack into even more microscopic evidence. Not that the police would even bother trying to stop me.

I sigh and run my black glove clad hands down my face before breathing in and out at the thought of tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll be out of Italy and out to the United kingdom. Where I’ll go to assasin school to make a name for myself. To become my own person. 

Ironic enough, my brother was the one who suggested it. He heard about it from a friend of the mafia who went there and thought it would be a good place for me to get away, to become someone, to make my own legacy, to live my life without the watchful eye of expectation peeping through my window.  I love my brother but even he understands my disdain for him. The utter jealousy that fills my body when he indirectly takes credit for my actions before I’m forced to walk away because women don’t belong in mens conversations.

I snort at the thought, what a damn joke. You call yourself an alpha male but with the very little interference of a woman on the field you back away and take a threatened stance. Like a deer staring into the headlights of their destruction. These aren’t men, these are boys whose wives were bought with money and false promises. I want to believe my brother is different, however, considering a woman called the house this morning while I was home alone, looking for him to tell him about his bastard son growing in her belly, well.  I do hope my brother doesn’t do something drastic like kill her, that would be unfortunate considering she sounded sweet. 

Actually he should kill her, put her out of her misery before it begins. Sweet doesn’t belong in the mafia. 

Maybe that's another reason I don’t get the credit I deserve. My bubbly personality and spoiled brat persona doesn’t exactly get me brownie points, it is however, always amusing when I snap, or so Rose says. 

I sigh as I begin the trek home, looking for one last time the streets of Italy under the stolen light of the full moon. I would miss it but this is necessary for my sanity, and brother's survival. 

(*)

When I get into the house I immediately take my mask off, the itchy fabric rubbing the beautiful and in my eyes, flawless skin, raw.My father walks up to me. 

I have and will always be more of my mothers child than my fathers. He was always one of the men who gave my brother credit instead of me and I hold a distaste for him because of it. He knows this but refuses to change his views because in his eyes, his first child, his heir, will always be better, always be the one worthy of his attention, love and praise.

“I trust the mission was complete before you leave?” It was a question but said to sound like an expectation and anything less will result in punishment that I know he doesn’t have the balls to deal out.

I nod, “Yes father,” I Take the lollipop that he holds out and take it before throwing it into my mouth. I know, it's strange that my reward for killing someone is a hard candy syrup treat but I think that is one of the crazier things about me. Or maybe it's strange to be rewarded for murder anyways…

He nods, pleased. “Good. All your finance in your account has been taken care of and here.” He holds out a familiar black card and gives it to me, to slide it into my pocket. “The black card has no limit. Yow will also enjoy all of your classes, your mother picked them out for you. Also a care package with sweet treats, jewelry, more clothes that you might want directly from home, etcetera will arrive at your dorm every time on mail day. We will not see you for a year, have fun.” He pats my head awkwardly before starting to walk away and I look at his retreating figure and sigh. 

My mother must be out of the house with friends, I didn’t tell her about this because even if she was always the better parent she still didn’t believe I should be putting myself in danger like this and should be happy with Princeton taking all the credit all the time. Princeton is probably out dealing with his baby mama crap. Mom will find out by morning however.

Fun fact; My dad is Kingston King, and my brother Princeton King. 

Ugh. 

1218 words 3 pages 

edited