Page 3 of My Mafia King

This is the most difficult part of my plan, and I try so hard not to let my tears roll and stain my cheeks and tell her the real story.

How leaving her here breaks my heart.

How I have no choice.

How I want a safe place for her, and that’s not possible under the current circumstances.

How this is the moment when I, as a person who’s primarily an adult only on paper, have to make an adult decision, which, in essence, is choosing between two bad options.

Either stay with her and work long hours at my job, deal with my cheating ex-boyfriend, and try to strike an alliance with the woman my father calls his girlfriend.

And not be able to change anything.

Witness days and nights like this one when we jump, startled, and frightened every time the doors get slammed in the house, and his voice is loud, his speech slurred, and his short fuse brings upon us dire times.

Or leave.

Abandon her here, fearing that I may never see her again.

That my father might do something stupid.

That he might make a mistake.

That someone else might snatch her because he didn’t pay attention to her while living in a daze, imbued with alcohol, or getting high.

Whatever heart-rending circumstances he might create would also get her.

Dark scenarios swirl in my head as I weigh my decision.

The risk is enormous, and this endeavor is fit for a real adult, which I’m not.

This is a test of maturity for me, and whether I pass it or not remains to be seen, but my decision has been made.

I haven’t discussed it with her, and she is terrified as if she knows what this is all about.

My heart bleeds while hers beats with unsuppressed desperation in her wet blue eyes.

I bring my fingers to her face and gently brush a few long strands of dark hair away from her cheeks before tucking it behind her ears.

Her eyes glisten while her tears start sliding down, like pure gemstones spilling from her lashes.

“What’s going on, Car?” she asks again, her eyes moving over my face.

She takes inventory of my hoodie, sweatpants, sports shoes, and duffel bag.

I look like I’m going to the gym, although no one in our family has ever purchased a gym membership.

It has never been in our budget, so she knows this is not about me working out.

Besides, it’s the middle of the night.

She wants to talk, yet she can’t suppress the quiet sobbing rocking her chest.

It’s a miracle I’m not sobbing with her.

Inside I am.

Warm rivers of tears flow down my cheeks in my head while my face stays dry and my lips are pressed together as I watch the kid in front of me breaking my heart with every twinkling tear marring her smooth skin.

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