Chapter Summary: Things can change within an instant, all it takes is a trigger or the click of a button.
Warnings: Chapter contains OCD disorder, signs of PTSD and an asshole boyfriend
- There are a lot of dad/mafia series, so if this seems similar to yours then message me for credit.
Words: 5K
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Little sounds could be heard, the small 'Pitter Patter' of feet- miniature feet, almost smaller than your hand in fact. Rosie comes running in, a picture in hand and collection of crayons in the other and a wide smile adorned her features. She had your smile, most definitely, creases forming beneath her eyes and teeth showing through her parted lips.
She wore a pair of comfortable leggings, a yellow shirt overtop and a pair of fluffy socks- her favorite ones with the blue polka dots. You almost wanted to applaud her for the outfit, picking the whole thing out herself after demanding she dress herself.
"I'm starting school soon mum, I can do it myself!"
You'd easily admit that the small girl was growing up too fast, but that was probably only due to the fact that she no longer allowed you to carry her around in public (despite the odd occasion, of course), and kisses at the kindergarten gate were rare and you savoured them when you could. Now she was dressing herself, some days in almost every color of the rainbow and some, like today she went for a more subtle outfit.
You were grateful that Rosie still allowed you to do her hair, the long, brown curls that frizzed up when you brushed them hung in a simple ponytail today, little brown baby hairs stuck out wildly, hanging in gentle coils.
Something told you that there was another reason as to why the girl was so independent. Maybe it was because some days she found herself clambering up at the beat of her purple alarm clock, finding you still dead asleep in the double bed (sometimes with your boyfriend- the man she didn't like) and manage to grab herself a bowl of cheerios.
Rosie would stand on the very tips of her toes to grab a bowl, little fingers wrapping around one of the plastic ones. (one had barbie on it and one had a frog- She favored the barbie bowl) The child was careful not to make too much noise, never knowing whether or not her mummy had enough sleep the night before or if she was up late again. She'd grab the glittery stool, dragging it over to the pantry where she'd reach in and grab out the container of her cereal of choice as well as a food item her mum wouldn't approve of that early in the morning.
Rosie would sit at the counter with a pencil in one hand, spoon in the other and color away, ignoring the little droplets of milk that landed on the paper and spotted her work. She'd wait for you to run in, hair strewn around and a panicked look on your face as you cursed and stressed. She'd giggle from her place at the counter, already excited to show off her first artwork of the day while you struggled to even make her lunch.
Your hands would tremble, eyes racing around the room before falling onto the little girl in the seat and you'd remind yourself that you had her- you had someone to live for and you had to take deep breaths and watch your thoughts and-
Rose stares up, expression that of a dog getting a belly rub as she waits for you to take the artwork from her hand and react positively as you always did. Maybe you'd even hang it up on the fridge like last time! So she was shocked when you took her hand in your own, completely missing the piece she held in her hand.
"What happened to your hands?" You ask, concern lacing every word. The small girl doesn't answer, she can't even look at you and whether it was out of shame or embarrassment- you couldn't be too sure. Her deep, brown eyes were fuzzy however from shock, not expecting you to notice the damage. "Rose?"
Her little hands, merely half the size of yours yet somehow chubbier were bleeding, not a lot but little beads sat around the red marks. Two sickly crimson scratches sat on the backs of each hand. It looked as if she'd done it herself, even with her nails a little longer then stubs that you mentally noted to deal with later.
"I was itchy." She mumbles. You pick the girl up, placing her onto the kitchen table where her eyes immediately fall to the easter egg shaped jar filled with cookies that you'd only stocked up last night. Somehow she knew what day was shopping day, and shopping day meant cookies that she could easily ween around of you.
"What've I said about scratching yourself too hard?" You sigh, the morning already going off with a bang. Life was never dull or slow with a child around. To say that you were always on the edge of your feet- mind always reeling with 'to do's' and 'must remember's!' Was an understatement. When the little girl didn't reply, you answered for her. "We need to sort this habit out."
Rossie sniffles gently, the hand you weren't examining reaching out to drag over the cookie jar. "Can I have one?"
"You can have one later." You say, knowing full well that she'd try and wriggle her way out of that whether it was pulling out the puppy dog eyes, the tears or just straight up steal one when you were out of the room. "Stay still, I'm gonna grab the bandaids."
You turn around, reaching into one of the cabinets to find where the bandages were. You knew that Rosie preferred the Hello Kitty band-aids, usually peeling the wiggles one's of within only an hour or fiddling with the bland, murky brown one's too much. She adored the way the pink and white ones looked.
Your hand finds the brightly colored box, pulling it down and turning around to see the girl already reaching into the jar, her chubby fingers trying to slip a sweet before you could catch her. Rosie thought that maybe she'd get away with it this time if she was quiet enough, taking a treat or two and stuffing them in her pant pockets to eat later when her mother was busy, or in the back seat of the car on the way to kindergarten. Maybe she'd even eat them at kindergarten tucked away in the back of the play shed where no one could take her cookies from her.
"What's the rule?" You scold, digging into the almost-empty packet to pull out the last few bandages, wishing you'd bought more yesterday.
Her head snaps up, brown curls that were tightly pulled into a ponytail bouncing around, falling over her wide eyes, a look of pure guilt crosses her features. You just had to crush her thoughts, staring down with a disappointed glint in your eyes making the girl pout. What you wouldn't tell Rosie was that there was already two cookies tightly wrapped in glad wrap and hidden at the bottom of her lunch box.
The cookie slipped between her fingers and back into the jar, crumbs and the remains of chocolate chips remain and yes, she was already thinking about licking all of it off the second she got the chance. "No sweets before ten."
"Mhm."
You take one of the bandaids, ripping the paper packaging off and take the sticky strip out. The right end stuck to your finger for a small moment, before you move to stick it over your daughter's wounds. The ones that were right over last weeks, little scars and picked scabs still remained.
"No! It hurts." Rosie complains, whipping her hand away almost as fast as she'd offered it in the first place. "Don't touch," she grumbles, a pout forming. She stuffs her hands into her chest, hands turned away.
"It's not going to hurt, Roo" A sigh escapes your lips, followed by a frustrated groan when Rosie flicks you a wicked glare. She was never a happy person in the morning. "Let me do this or it'll get infected."
She wiggles back, clothed bottom sliding against the bench. "I don't care if it gets intec-intected."
"Infections hurt a lot more than what you're feeling now." You screw your face up in distaste, watching Rosie's face remain the same. "They smell too." Rosie gawks, mouth open only slightly as you speak. She was listening intently but also wanted to pretend that she wasn't, so began to play with the hem of her t-shirt, the bright yellow distracting her from the sting in her hands. "Infections mean hospitals."
"Hospitals mean lollipops." She still looked down, voice sounding muffled and words slightly shrewd. The little girl wanted to stick her tongue out at her mother, feeling as if she'd found a loophole in the situation but you thought otherwise, all while trying not to stare at the clock that continued ticking- every moment gone was another one that you'd be late to work and she'd be late to kindergarten.
"They also mean needles."
That got her attention. Hesitantly, your daughter holds her hands out, legs outstretched on the kitchen table and you try and ignore the fact that this was the third time this month that you'd been in this situation. She stares carefully, eyes watching your every move like a hawk would its prey. She was ready to pull away at any moment, to tell her mother off for pressing too hard on the wounds despite your attempts to be as gentle as possible.
It was eerily silent as you applied the band-aids, Rosie's eyes drawing between your actions and the still full cookie jar, her mouth only watering at the sight despite the fact that she had a piece of jam on toast only half an hour earlier. That was until she winced slightly, squeezing her eyes shut tightly and refusing to look.
Your eyes, however, were fully trained on the girl's hands, making sure that you applied each band-aid with caution to her already sore hands. A part of you wanted to tape a pair of gloves to her hands or wrap them in bubble wrap but that thought was completely unrealistic. You stuck your bottom lip between your teeth in concentration, working until her hands were now a mess of pastel pink and slightly creepy looking cats that stared up at you with pestering eyes.
"Done?" Rosie asks, still not opening her eyes.
You laugh, "Done, baby." She opens her eyes slowly, squinting as she looks down at her hands to see that there were three band-aids, the little white cat covering the dorsal side. "I'm proud of you." You give her a small peck on the check, the little girl screwing her nose up at the action. "Now, try not to make it any worse at kindergarten today, can you do that?"
The little four-year-old was confused, wondering why it was such a big deal but nods anyway. That seemed to be enough for her mother who picked her up, planting her back onto the wooden flooring where she was minutes earlier.
The second her mother looked away she stuck her fingers into her mouth, the taste of chocolate and little prickles of cooking crumbs making her taste buds tingle in delight despite the minty undertone.
It'd been years since you'd seen him, only hours since you thought of him and minutes since a fresh wave of guilt had hit, knocking you back down into the rubble and grime. It was all symbolism, really. A key selection of words that you'd chosen to describe how it felt to not only be away from the man you once loved but to live with the guilt of what you did every day. Every. Damn. Day.
There was a list of things that you did, in no way are you playing victim nor plan to. You left days after his best friends death, days after his house had been the location of a hostage situation and days after he ultimately broke. The price of that? Post-traumatic stress disorder to the nines.
You didn't just leave. You left with his child- his daughter who was now four and had no idea her father even existed and you had absolutely no idea if he was still okay if he was safe and still involved in the mafia or not. Knowing Tom he most likely still was. He may have still been as greedy as ever, taking in all of the power he could with open arms and a deep, grey heart.
The small, apartment door opens. Wood creaking lowely making Rosie snake around your leg, little fingers in her mouth as she licked off any trace of what could of been. It was only open for a split second but you managed to catch a whiff of the cool air, all of the warm air that had been building up in your apartment for the last half hour creeping through the cracks.
"Mornin, sweetheart." His voice is thick, gruff and a sound you definitely didn't want to hear this early in the morning. It was only nine am, wasn't that a little too early for him?
"Morning." You find yourself muttering, hands racing around the kitchen to find everything you'd made for Rosie's lunch without her letting go of your leg, the small girl was clinging to you like a monkey, something she only did every so often.
"What have you two been up to?" He asks, looking directly down at your daughter. She doesn't reply, her lips remain in a visible purse. "I asked a question, darling."
Rosie looks up at you, then back at Aiden who was waiting for an answer. "I drew mummy and me and watched SpongeBob."
The little yellow sponge that lived under the sea was Rosie's ultimate favorite. You could find her watching that show every chance she had, giggling away as the characters made stupid jokes that you would've once laughed at. Maybe it was because of that show that she asked you for a fish for Christmas and had even tried washing her own dishes with the cleaning sponge under the sink, drawing a small face on it last time she got her hands on a black marker.
Aiden creeps closer and you pat Rosie on the shoulder, instructing her to run off to her room or to the living room, assuring her that there'd be a good tv show waiting for her on the television and she seemed hesitant, but noticing your hard face unwraps her arms and sprints off to her bedroom, hopefully to shove a pair of shoes on before you'd be running drastically late once more.
Aiden speaks up first, his black ruffled hair hanging in messy strands that bounce around as he moves closer. "She's doing it again."
"I know." You reply curtly, not wanting to talk about the issue that had become Rosie's nature.
"You really should keep a closer eye on that girl, she's destructive. It's a bad habit." Aiden was indiscrete about directing the blame towards you, disgusted gaze staring you down.
Anything was better than arguing. Take the comment and change the situation.
"You're early today?" You hum gently, getting the bright pink school bag and making sure everything was inside, including the stuffed bear. You swore the girl hadn't gone a day without that bear ever since she started kindergarten and now, since she was so close to starting school you wondered what would happen to it. Whether the toy would continue to lay at the bottom of her bag or go back to its place at the end of the single bed.
"I've got a meeting." The man almost huffs, looking down at his phone before shoving it into his back pocket. He walks over to the fridge, grabbing out a bottle of cider from a few nights earlier and takes a large gulp, a few drops staining his lips. "Soon, actually. Just thought I'd stop in before heading over."
"Meeting? You never have them." You point out, a small smile forming but beneath that was nerves. The forever feeling of uneasiness. "Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, its all fine. Just meeting with the big boss, you know. Need to go over the stats and things."
You move over to the sink, the tub already full to the brim. White bubbles floated around the top, bouncing around the few dishes that still sat. There was Rosie's plate, a mug of discarded orange juice and your coffee mug- despite the fact that you'd been strictly told to stay away from caffeine.
"The bills come today." You sigh. A wave of stress and nausea washing over you as you think about the pile of letters that'd be waiting in your slot later that day. Your hands sink into the tub, suddenly engulfed in the warmth.
"Whatever, I can see to them." He offers, no hesitation as one of his hands go around your waist as you lean against the counter, cool material flush against the flesh of your back that had managed to peek out of your t-shirt.
You tense, muscles stiffening at the sudden contact. "You don't have to, you got them last-"
He chuckles. "I have more money than what I know to do with, you've got nothing." While it was a nice offer, his comment made you grit your teeth, the fact was all too real. Laced between a fake kindness and generosity was intimidation. Maybe it was sick and twisted. "Without me, you and her would both starve- you'd be living in the streets."
There was no spark between the two of you, nothing at all in the last year that you'd been together. It was a two-sided, unspoken thing, really. It was bad and it was dirty and made you feel like the upmost crappiest human being on Earth.
You almost shiver as his hands wrap around you, the familiar- yet hated feeling making your heart miss a beat. Your hands falling to the sides of the bench where you find yourself gripping the edges. "Okay, yeah."
There was no point in fighting the matter because speaking back meant arguing, something you couldn't deal with. Arguing meant voices that bounced off of walls, bright, sickly red faces and glass hitting walls and tears, lots of them.
"Do you have therapy today?" His stubble hits your cheek briefly, little prickly hairs making goosebumps form on your arms but there was a small possibility that was out of pure discomfort.
"That's Tuesdays." You remind him, noting that it was in fact Thursday. The words were actually hanging up on the wall calendar behind you, if it weren't for that then you would have sworn it was Wednesday.
"Oh yeah, forgot." Your boyfriend mutters, phone vibrating in one hand while the other remained around you. He unlocks it, eyes hardening but you don't get to see the name on the phone, nor what the text was before a small curse exits his lips, phone shoved away as quick as lightning. "Fuck."
"What's wrong?" You ask.
Aiden was quick to reply, the hard glare changing to a sickly smile. "Nothing, nothing. Just the boss."
You nod, hands playing with the water and bubbles collecting on the palms of your hands instead of actually doing the dishes. It was hypnotic, really. The water moved so calmly, little swirls and shapes forming with each stroke of your hand.
"Hey, what time does Rosie have to be at kinder again?"
You look up at the clock hanging on the pale kitchen wall seeing that it was in fact, getting late. By this point, you should already be in the car, an excited child in tow but she was still in her room tugging at her shoelaces, trying to figure out how to work them with her tongue sticking out of her mouth carefully.
"Shit! Rosie, we're gonna be late." You call, panic setting in all of a sudden. You try to pull away only to be pulled back into his chest, arms remaining tightly around your waist and you find your breathing getting caught in the back of your throat between a quickly forming lump.
"Kiss?"
Spinning around to your waiting boyfriend, you give him a small peck, warm lips meeting his chapped, still icy cold from the cider ones. They tasted of apples and it reminded you of summer. "Good Luck at the meeting and say hi to Avery for me!"
It was fair to say that this was nothing like your relationship with Tom. There was no spark, no looking forward to what would happen next or desire to be near each other. On one end you felt that you needed him around. Without him, you and Rosie would sink and on the other you wondered if maybe it was partially a punishment, your sick mind making you think that you deserve this for the lives lost on that torturous day.
"Will do." Your boyfriend mutters, already reaching into the cupboards to look for something to eat.
-
Tom
'Recent statistics show crime rates dropping in Kingston as police keep an extra eye out. Drug busts are the lowest they've been in years and theft is at a minimum. The level of-"
Tom sits at his desk, pen tapping away impatiently. Things had been oddly quiet lately and to say that the mobster was itching to get his hands dirty was an understatement. Today seemed to be the day, with a meeting only hours from now he was determined to shed a little bit of blood and quite frankly, paint the walls red.
A firm expression settled on his features as, the annoying sounding of Sam playing some phone game could be heard over the tapping of feet, but the game was easily more annoying. It sounded like a metal spoon hitting a hardwood floor over and over until ultimately he'd lose yet another round, a grunt leaving his lips as he tried again with no success.
Much to Tom's pleasure, Harry sat quietly. For once in his damn life, the mobster thought.
Silence was good, it allowed the most important thoughts to flow freely without being interrupted. Tom often found himself thinking about his next move so that he could continue to stretch his empire, to dig up more gold whether that came in the form of the secrets of those that despised him so the mobster could ruin them or actual, hard as wood gold.
It'd truly been mere hours since Tom had last thought about his past, the recurring thoughts that circled his brain like a merry go round. Tom thought about her and how the last time he saw her she was empty, merely a body with no soul because he fully believed that she lost any ounce of light the day she was threatened and held at gunpoint. She lost any sign of life the moment a man- a good man at that, bled out at her feet.
He thought about how her soft giggles used to fill the naked silence and wondered if she still did that, laughed when times got tough because humor was an awfully fun coping mechanism, but one that'd tear you apart eventually no matter how many times he warned her. Okay, maybe he was a little bit of a hypocrite.
He remembered just how the bed never used to feel as empty as it did now, even with Tessa snuggled up to his side and how it never used to be as cold. Maybe Tom sometimes imagined her snatching the blankets away at half three or the little snores that'd slip out as the sun began to rise. Those little snores that used to wake up him, but he never once complained.
He was haunted with the ghosts of his past and he couldn't shake them off no matter how hard he tried, despite the fact that he was still angry beyond comparison. Angry at the world- angry at fate and angry and himself.
Tom was holding a grudge, sure. One that wouldn't settle. At first, Tom had been upset, he mourned and grieved the loss of his best friend and his wife. He had tried to drink himself silly going through limitless amounts of brandy and a sickly amount of cigarettes. And then he went livid.
All Tom saw was bright, hot red and directed all of his anger into his work instead of himself. It was probably the best week the mob had in years. He was demanding, making people drop to their knees in pure fear and no one- Not a soul dared to defy him again. Especially when they found out what happened to Nick.
Something Tom couldn't get over, however, was what Harrison would think of him now. He'd be shaking his head, disappointment evident on his features. The best friend always wanted more than death and gore but Tom had slipped down the wrong path, fallen waist deep in trouble.
"Have you decided how you're going to deal with Wilson?" Harry snaps his brother out of a trance all while looking through the personal folder. In it contained all of the information the Hollands had on the dealer they were about to mess with, everything from each one of his addresses to the trouble he caused ten to twenty years ago. Also, just enough information to get him jailed for life if the guy ever decided to cause any trouble.
To put it simply, his name was Aiden Wilson. A long-term client of the mob and one that hadn't been paying what he owed to the brothers. Certified sleazebag.
"Not yet, I have got a few ideas though," Tom replies.
Harry hums, eyes scanning the folder before a thought come to mind. He almost pushes it away, thinking the hunch was merely that- a hunch, but he manages to remember one thing has father taught him before running loss. Never take chances.
"Can you check his bank records real quick?" Harry leans forward in his seat. The boy kicks his legs off of the table and wheels around in the spinny chair so that he was able to see everything Tom was doing on the computer.
"Why?" Tom questions, still working his magic to access each one of the man's bank records from over the last twenty years in only seconds.
"I just want to check something." He murmurs, squinting at the screen. Tom swore that he was going to pay for Harry to get his eyes checked sooner or later.
Tom clicks around and ultimately the page overflows with recent purchases, money going in and money going out. The guy seemed to be earning more than enough money so why wasn't he paying his fair share to Tom? As if Tom wasn't angry enough.
There was, however, one big transaction going through around once a month, a few smaller- yet still fairly large ones in between. Wilson was sending money through to someone, pretty large amounts.
"What the fuck?" Tom muttered, eyeing the odd transactions. "What do you think this is?"
"Prostitution?" Harry asks, not putting it past the guy.
"No way, he wouldn't pay bu card." Tom points out. His mind was reeling with possibilities but none seemed to make sense. "Those sums are pretty big."
"Here, check where the money's going." Harry pointed and Tom complied.
The brothers weren't expecting to find anything big, maybe something to add to the pile of dirt they already had. They had enough, clearly, but what was a bit more?
"You have to be fucking-"
"What is it?" Harry asks. His eyes hadn't landed on the name that was so clearly on the screen, in solid letters, teasing and taunting Tom who grits his teeth out of pure frustration.
Y/N Y/L/N
Your name sat on the screen in big, bold letters and Tom had to blink to make sure he was seeing correctly, thinking for a moment that it actually was your name. There were probably many women in the world with the same name as you, more than you'd imagine but an address sat underneath and it only confirmed his suspicions. That name, that damn name made him feel too many things at once- a wave of emotions he didn't even want to think about hitting him like a bus going full speed.
Tom felt like he was invading, breaking his long-kept promise as he stared at your address on the screen. All of the information he needed to get back to you was right in front of him and it only made him angry, hand tightly curling around the mouse.
The sudden urge to chuck the computer across the room became too much, invading his already fuzzy mind and he didn't exactly care about the fact that you were closer then he'd expected- well, of course he did, but then and there he wanted to know why he was seeing what he was seeing.
"It can't be her-" Harry began, eyes squinting in slight disbelief.
"Same name, same fucking city." Tom growls, face growing red hot. "It's her."
It was only then that Sam looked up from his game, knowing who it was without needing to ask. Maybe it was twin telepathy or maybe the two brothers were just completely obvious. But Sam knew and he could practically feel his oldest brothers anger radiating throughout the room.
"What are you going to do?" Sam tucked his phone away, discarding his game of helix jump after being stuck on the same level for the last half hour.
"Text Wilson, tell him to come to the warehouse instead," Tom instructs, his grip now almost suffocating.
"Tom-" Harry tries to say, voice cut off by a furious Tom.
"I told you to do something so fucking do it."