Page 43 of Mila: The Godfather

Before, I didn’t quite understand my infatuation with the youngest Parisi. I thought it was only pity.

Until I understood what it really was.

What is different about her from the ones who came before.

Mila Areya Parisi feels like home.

She is home.

Mila’s Secret Thoughts

You came into my life when I least expected it & my heart healed when it recognized you.

Islands Breeze & Magical Dreams

MILA

“Open your eyes and see. See all that we could be.” – R

My heart picked up as the plane’s door lowered, and the breeze touched my face almost like a gentle first kiss. Closing my eyes, I save this moment in my memory for the dark days to come by taking a long and deep breath, then open my eyes once again. I try blinking three times, but I don’t wake up like other times, when I’ve been caught in a dream.

No, I am certainly not dreaming.

This is real.

With the eagerness of a child on Christmas morning, I step out and step down the stairs. The first thing I notice is how bright it is and how tropical the weather feels. Then I take in the huge airport, not far from where we are. With each step I take, I feel the invisible chains my father placed on me break free.

I feel them breaking, and suddenly I am able to breathe without feeling like I’m fighting for my next breath.

This is it.

I am actually here.

This is my first time outside of the country and the first time I am so far from home. Far from all I know and love, my sisters.

Everything is different from Detroit here.

Even the smell.

Like one of those tropical-scented candles mother loved so much. Ginevra Parisi might’ve paid zero attention to me and gave little to no affection to my sisters, but she sure did love her happy pills, father’s money, and scented candles. I guess being odd is a common trait on her side of the family.

Steering my thoughts away from my absent mother, I focus on the now.

In my excitement to leave the plane behind and explore this magical place, I don’t watch my last step, and I stumble forward ready to hit the ground, but before I do, a huge hand grabs me gently by the waist, and I am pulled back into a hard chest.

I prepare for the inevitable. The itching on my skin and labored breaths when I feel the unwanted touch, but it never comes. In its place, there’s that tingling sensation in my stomach from before.

From when he looks or talks softly at me.

The contact doesn’t last long because, before I know it, I am missing his touch as he releases me once he is sure I am holding on to the railings and steps back.

Missing his touch.

Me, the person who hates not only strangers’ eyes on me but their touch, misses the touch of a man whose hands are not clean but guilty of spilling blood, yet I don’t mind it. Not one bit. If Carlotta could see me now. She wouldn’t believe it.

I hate messes and messy people, and here I am.

One giant mess, and he is witnessing it. I don’t hide it like I have with others all my life.

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