"I respectfully decline to answer because I honestly believe my answer might tend to incriminate me."- Joey Gallo.
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.
But the transformation was not limited to the physical.
I also embraced my mother's Turkish roots, casting aside the stifling weight of my father's Sicilian heritage. This newfound connection allowed me to be more open with myself, no longer hiding my heritage to compensate for the Cosa Nostra's expectations and the prejudice I faced as a "dirty mixed" breed with a supposedly impure bloodline.
For so long, I had to overcompensate for my Italian identity, always acting more Italian than others to compensate for the disdain some of the Made Men held for a mixed-blood Made Woman.
It is a reality that Aiyla knew all too well. She had seen the hardships I had endured because of our father's legacy. She knew it first-hand because she lived it too.
My eyebrow arches in response, anger simmering just below the surface. "I see you haven't lost your knack for backhanded compliments," I retort, my tone cool but laced with an underlying edge. "Or your talent for getting yourself involved in matters that do not concern you."
She shrugs nonchalantly, a faint smirk playing on her lips. "You know me, always looking out for the family," she replies, her words dripping with false sincerity. "Even when it goes unappreciated."
I take a step closer, the years of our strained relationship echoing in my mind. "It's not about looking out for the family," I shoot back, a touch of bitterness creeping into my voice. "It's about looking out for yourself and whatever serves your interests."
Her eyes narrow, and for a moment, I catch a hint of amusement flickering across her face. "You're hardly in a position to lecture me, hypocrite," she counters sharply. "Always running away from your responsibilities, leaving me to pick up the pieces."
Aiyla's words, dripping with the venom of our bitter history, act as the spark igniting a blazing inferno of rage deep within me.
My patience wears thinner with each syllable she utters, and anger courses through my veins like molten lava. It is a searing fury, stoked by her audacious disregard that threatens to consume every ounce of restraint within me.
In a heartbeat, I am transformed from the composed woman standing before her into a tempest of fury.
My hand darts forward with a speed that surprises even me, and it strikes Aiyla's cheek with a thunderous crack. The room reverberates with the force of the slap, and I can feel the shockwave of pain coursing from my palm to my arms.
In the wake of the slap, a charged silence blankets the room. Aiyla's eyes widen in disbelief, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of surprise and hurt. My own hand lingers in the air, still trembling from the force of the blow as if to grasp the enormity of what just transpired.
The weight of the moment settles heavily upon us, and for a brief second, time seems to stand still, suspended in the air. The echo of the slap lingers like an unspoken question, a declaration of boundaries crossed and lines redrawn.
As the seconds tick by, the silence begins to crack, like a fragile façade giving way to raw emotions. Aiyla's expression morphs from disbelief to anger, and her eyes blaze with indignation.
"Remember your place, Aiyla," I assert firmly, my voice unwavering and commanding. "We are family, but in this world, there are lines we cannot cross. As your Dona, I will not tolerate disrespect." I make it very clear that despite Aiyla's position as my Capa, it doesn't excuse her insubordination.
Aiyla sucks in a breath, her eyes momentarily avoiding mine, before attempting to brush off my warning, though I know it has hit its mark. "Glad to see you adapting back so soon, Dona." The way she accentuates "Dona" carries a subtle hiss intended to prick at me.
With an air of nonchalance, I let her comment slide, though her words still provoke a twinge of irritation deep within me. There is an elephant in the room, a weighty silence that speaks volumes about the unresolved issues between us. A minefield that does not need delving.
"We have a meeting in thirty," Aiyla continues, her voice devoid of any emotion. "The bathroom is down to the left."
I nod, acknowledging her words without saying another. Despite my burning curiosity about the meeting, I want this encounter to be over as soon as possible.
Aiyla's mask of detachment remains intact, and she turns to leave, the sound of the closing door echoing in the silence that follows.
With her departure, I am left alone again and I take a few minutes to compose myself, fully aware that the upcoming meeting likely revolves around my return. I cannot stand the thought of being subjected to their lectures and manipulative schemes after the eventful circumstances that brought me back.
Leaving the bedroom, I walk down the faintly illuminated hallway, my feet tapping against the cold marble floors. The filtered light seeping through the curtains causes a sharp pang in my eyes as if waking from a prolonged slumber.
The tranquilizer they used to subdue me during the journey back to New York has left me feeling groggy and disoriented. I can not even be sure of the time, but the soft glow suggests it is early morning.
My head throbs and I instinctively reach up to massage the back of my neck, trying to alleviate the persisting ache. The events of the previous day are still jumbled fragments in my memory, like pieces of a puzzle scattered across the floor. The whole ordeal has left me feeling detached and disconnected from reality.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I reach the bathroom. Its appearance mirrors the rest of the safe house—simple, functional, and utilitarian.
I glance at myself in the mirror, and I hardly recognize the person staring back at me. I haven't been able to recognize her in years.
There she stands. Imperfect, marred by flaws and insecurities.
Dark circles frame my eyes like shadows, a stark testament to the sleepless nights and haunting memories that refuse to let go. The mascara that once adorned my lashes with a touch of elegance is now smudged, a silent witness to tears I did not permit myself to shed.
My lips, usually adorned with confidence and armed with feisty comebacks, now seem hesitant, unsure of what words to form. The spark of defiance that once danced in my eyes has dimmed, replaced by a flicker of uncertainty.
I reach up to touch the face staring back at me, my fingertips tracing the contours of my cheeks.
My skin feels different as if it carries the weight of the world upon it. Each imperfection, each line and blemish etched into my face like a painter's cruel twisted joke.
I scrutinize my hair, once a source of pride, now a tangled mess mirroring the chaos in my mind.
It's as if every strand carries a piece of the burden I bear, each wave a reminder of the unpredictable twists my life has taken. I grip the edges of the sink, feeling the cold hardness beneath my fingers grounding myself to reality.
The self-hate surges through me, a relentless torrent I've grown all too accustomed to. The voice in my head, always whispering words of doubt and inadequacy, grows louder in the solitude of the bathroom.
I fight the urge to break the mirror, to shatter the reflection that mocks me. Instead, I grit my teeth and force myself to look away, unable to bear the pain any longer.
I grab the spare toothbrush, its bristles feeling coarse against my teeth as I start brushing mechanically. I rinse out the minty liquid and proceed to gargle mouthwash, swishing it around my mouth, trying to cleanse away more than just the remnants of toothpaste.
Before undressing, I reach for a towel and carefully drape it over the mirror, shielding myself from the relentless self-criticism that it triggers. I breathe a sigh of relief as the reflection is finally obscured, and the pressure to scrutinize every inch of myself dissipates.
But I know all too well, that it is a temporary thing.
Stepping into the shower, I let the hot water cascade over me allowing it to relax my tense muscles. The steam envelopes me, creating a cocoon of tranquillity, and for a fleeting moment, I feel like I can escape from the clutches of self-doubt.
As I lather soap and shampoo, I try to focus on the simple act of cleansing, letting my mind drift away from the negative thoughts that usually plague it. But the quiet respite is short-lived, and soon, the familiar self-critical voice starts to creep back in, whispering doubts and insecurities in my ear.
I shut my eyes tight, trying to block out the voices, but they persist, echoing in the corners of my mind. It's a battle I have fought countless times before and one that I know I can't truly win.
I quickly finish showering, not wanting to give in to the rising panic that threatens to engulf me. I step out of the shower, wrap myself in a towel, and try to steady my breathing. The steam in the bathroom feels suffocating now, mirroring the weight of my anxiety.
I take deep breaths, trying to ground myself in the present moment. I remind myself that these feelings are temporary and that they will pass.
I focus on the sensation of the towel against my skin, the warmth of the bathroom, and the sound of water droplets falling from my wet hair.
Slowly, the panic subsides, and I start to feel more in control. With renewed determination, I finish getting dressed, slipping into the underwear set and clothes laid out for me.
The suit clings to me like a second skin, a sophisticated ensemble tailored to accentuate every curve and contour of my body. The pants, a sleek, dark charcoal gray, hug my legs just right, elongating my somewhat short silhouette. As much as I hate to admit it, they do wonders for my figure, drawing attention to my hips and waist—two areas I've always been self-conscious about, despite countless hours spent at the gym every day.
These clothes sure as hell didn't come from the Saints' fashion catalog. They reek of Aiyla's meticulous planning, from helping catch me to accompanying me to this meeting and setting up my wardrobe. It infuriates me, the way she has everything neatly arranged. Any sister might appreciate their sibling's choice of outfit, but our relationship is anything but normal. She's not just trying to reel me in; she's attempting to control every damn aspect of this situation, even down to what I wear for this meeting.
Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if she planned to frame these clothes as a twisted trophy, a memento of how she managed to screw me over again.
While part of me appreciates the way they accentuate my figure, the other part is repulsed by the scrutiny they invite.
The blouse is a delicate ivory color, with a low neckline that shows just a hint of cleavage. The fabric feels soft against my skin, and I notice the way it drapes elegantly over my chest, adding a touch of femininity to the boldness of the suit.
Completing the ensemble is the blazer, a sleek black jacket that adds an air of authority to my appearance.
With a soft sigh, I slide my feet into the elegant beige heels, relishing the way they elevate me, both in stature and in spirit. The moment they embrace my feet, it is as if a surge of electricity courses through my veins.
My fingers move with practiced precision as I reach for the foundation, two shades darker than my tan, a stark contrast to the paleness I've acquired over the years.
I move on to my eyes, carefully applying mascara and eyeliner to enhance their intensity. The demure seductiveness they exude is calculated, keeping men from probing too deeply.
With steady hands, I apply the bold red lipstick, hesitating for a moment before allowing its audacious hue to grace my lips. It does not feel like me, but it's another layer to hide behind, an armor against the prying eyes that may catch a glimpse of the real emotions I guard so fiercely.
After finishing my makeup, I step back and do a final look in the mirror. I run my hand through my damp hair, deciding to let it air dry since there are no hair dryers available. The burgundy waves, cascade over my shoulders and back.
With one last nod of approval at my reflection, I turn away from the mirror and head towards the door. As I made my way down the hallway, it was common sense that the company was downstairs.
I trudge down the stairs, my steps heavy and purposeful, and there, at the bottom, stands Aiyla, her body tense like a tightly wound wire. Her dark brown eyes meet mine, but they're as cold and distant as the night sky, revealing nothing of the thoughts spiraling beneath the surface.
"They are expecting us," Aiyla states, her gaze briefly flicking to her watch before returning to me.
I offer a curt nod in response, my own expression a mirror of her iciness. Without another word, I step past her, heading towards the study.
Despite the unfamiliar layout of the safe house, I refused to let my ego admit defeat by asking Aiyla for directions. I'd rather roam lost than admit my ignorance.
I navigate the corridors, mentally analyzing the house's architecture. My footsteps echo in the quiet corridor as I swiftly discard rooms that seem too exposed or inadequate, mapping out the rest of the layout.
It wouldn't be too close to the front entrance, that much is certain. My gaze flickers over the living area, assessing potential locations. A room adjacent to it, perhaps? Somewhere that offers a balance between accessibility and discretion.
As I walk, the puzzle pieces start to fit together, leading me toward the room that must be the study.
I step into the study room, and the atmosphere shifts almost palpably. The air becomes charged with an undeniable tension that seems to thicken as I enter, my presence immediately seizing attention from every corner of the room.
Men with years etched on their faces, all impeccably dressed in suits, turn their gazes towards me. My arrival seems to carry the weight of a kingdom's expectations. They collectively fixate on me, like subjects acknowledging their rightful sovereign.
Their eyes, each harboring its own concealed agenda, scrutinize me—dissecting, evaluating, and calculating my presence. Various expressions emerge: some tinged with faint amusement, as if they view the unfolding scene as a captivating spectacle; others brimming with curiosity, as if I am an enigma they're eager to unravel. Then there are those who skillfully conceal their emotions, hiding their true thoughts behind well-practiced masks.
The study sprawls expansively, its dimensions grand and befitting the gravity of the discussions held within. At a substantial table, three men sit, their postures poised and their expressions controlled. Subtle lapel pins on their suits bear the symbols of a Christian cross and a dove, hinting at their affiliations without overt proclamation. The Saints.
Alongside them, Esposito takes his position near the corner adjacent to the door, a vigilant sentinel ever watchful. Aiyla, with a swift, subtle motion, slips into the room behind me. Her presence is almost imperceptible as she assumes a stance that is both observant and discreet.
The room is wrapped in a deafening silence, a vacuum that swallows any sound, leaving only the weight of expectation hanging heavily in the air. I stand there, my demeanor cool and composed, my features a mask of nonchalance that conceals the storm of thoughts and calculations swirling within me.
I maintain my stance, projecting an aura of collected composure, while beneath my facade, a whirlwind of thoughts and calculations races.
After a deliberate pause, I shatter the tense silence. "Gentlemen," I address them, my voice steady and measured, "it seems we have matters to discuss."