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It was actually rather comforting to see my parents alive and breathing. Three years of practically no contact had caused me to imagine some pretty fucked up things about their well being. In my head, they were dead in a ditch somewhere off a highway with their teeth cut out, fingertips burned off, with my mother's breast implants ripped from her to erase all possibilities of identifying them. All things except for the scar that my mother had on her back from a terrifying assassination attempt when I was ten; I knew that scar like the back of my hand. Alas, they were not dead and unrecognizable but rather very well put together.

My mother still looked plastic and fake but she held a grace that I haven't met many who had. She was the typical kind of model beauty; there was obviously something very alluringly attractive about her but somehow you knew most of the beauty she held had come from a scalpel. Her dyed blonde hair was chopped into layers, her hazel eyes were now a deep forest green, her full lips looked a little too full, her naturally tanned skin was even tanner than the last time I saw her, and her boobs were still very much there.

Father was a little fuller in the face but he looked better than my mother. His greying hair was dyed dark black and gelled into a style that I think he was a little too old for, his hazel eyes were still hazel but they looked sadder than I remember, he had also gotten a tan on his already dark skin, and he was wearing a forest green suit to bring out my mother's eyes. She was smart enough to trick someone into complimenting her.

Adonis and Harvey search them as I slip my coat jacket off. It takes five minutes for Adonis and Harvey to discover two measly guns and my parents shoot hot glares at my bodyguards but they sit down in silence. The guns are sat onto the table.

My parents smile at me as I relax into my seat. The restaurant is unusually empty tonight and I come to the conclusion that this was my parent's doing. Mikayla and Adrian Deacon were wanted felons, they couldn't risk being caught by the American authorities.

"Mother, Father, hello."

"Hello, Francesca." My father says kindly.

"Chessy, it's marvelous to see you."

Using my nickname? This was going to be a serious conversation. My mother only used my nickname when she knew that she needed to soften the blow of what she was about to say. I called the waiter and he rushes over in seconds. "The strongest bottle of alcohol that you have."

"Right away, madam."

"Should you be drinking?" Father asks as I play with the napkin underneath the table; crumpling and smoothing it out over and over again.

"I am twenty-four years old, I drink occasionally."

"Maybe we should order something first." Mother tries to ease me into the awaiting conversation.

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