The Mafia King [BOOK 1] 18+

Chapter 2:

When Ashton was five years old, he learned to ride a bike for the first time. Behind him, his mother urged him on, laughing slightly at the terrified look on his face.

The pair were in the backyard, which his mother deemed a safe place to start as it was nowhere near the street. He had been relentlessly begging her to teach him after he had witnessed one of his daycare friends ride one at a playdate. For a five-year-old, riding a bike was the highest accomplishment one could conquer. Yet as soon as his feet hit the pedals and the cycle wavered from side to side, a scary feeling curled in his stomach.

His mother had cheered him on as if he had won a great battle, yelling his name repeatedly to show her enthusiasm. At that moment, he couldn't see himself as any sort of winner as the chills crept up his spine. He vowed to himself right then and there that if it was up to him, he would never get on the death trap again. Frustrated with his lack of balance, he put on the bravest face he could muster up and pedaled slowly away.

His stomach coiled and he feels the sinking feeling reappear, his brain appearing to send warning signals as he made his way to the other side of the garden. Something awful was about to happen, he could feel it as his hear hammered against his chest, the sound of an alarm blaring through his head as if to tell him to stop right where he was. Now, Ashton might be five-years old but he knew one thing, only losers quit.

He let out a huff, pedaling faster to reach the opposite side already. It felt thousands of meters away, even if it was only a few feet in reality. He moved his feet faster, and the wind blew past him, it was electrifying. He could feel it in his bones, the feeling of success. This, this is what it felt like to be a superhero.

It happened before he could even process it. He felt the pain first and only after seeing the remnants of the bike had he realized he had crashed into the wall. He had attempted to catch himself but ended up landing on his wrist. It was bent at an awkward position and it felt numb. Confused, he made an effort to lift the arm but clutched it back to his chest as he felt the sudden jolt of soreness. Tears spring to his eyes as he tries to maneuver it so it would straighten it out, coming to the conclusion that moving it any sort of way would just bring more discomfort.

His breathing became rapid as his chest heaved up and down, salty tears trickling down his rosy cheeks. His mother sprinted toward him, checking his face for any injuries before pulling him toward her chest, leaving small kisses on his head. "Oh, my baby." She soothed, rubbing small circles in his back as he clutched her shirt in his palm, weeping out in pain.

At four years old, Ashton fractured his arm and learned two things. First, he hated his bicycle. Second, he should've listened to the little voice inside his head.

When Ashton was seven years old, his father was a passing sight that he caught only once or twice every couple of weeks. Up until then, his tiny little world revolved around his mother, their secluded home off the coast of Amalfi, and their afternoon picnics by the old tree swing in the backyard. His memories clouded by the smell of the sea at noon when the sun glistened against the water making it look like stars danced along the waves, and the soft touch of sand against his wet toes; the tiny grains that felt like peppered kisses scattered on his skin.