CHAPTER 3: PASTA VS NOODLES

HAVEN'S POV

The bed I slept on last night was a hundred times better than the bed in my apartment. And yet, when I wake up this morning, I feel more exhausted than usual.

There was already light outside the window when I managed to get some shut-eye, but not even two hours later I was jolted awake when I heard Fierro and the other man I still don't know the name of talking and moving around.

I should go out there and face them, but instead I'm still holed up here in a room that they let me use. It's almost noon, but I'm still here hiding. It's just that I feel like if I step out of this room, I would have no choice but to accept my reality that is so unbelievable that it makes dreaming and hallucinating a better explanation for everything.

"I feel like I'm in a movie or a book. Everything doesn't feel real," I whispered to myself.

First, my parents turned out to be criminals, and a lot of people lost their lives because of their unlawful decisions.

Second, they lose the money they laundered when it was seized by the government, and now the people who own those money are going after me.

Third, I'm now in the hands of a person they owe but seem to be the lesser evil in the story. Unlike the others, he's not planning to kill me. Yet. Don't forget that. He's not planning to kill you yet, but he has no reason not to if you give him a reason to dump your lifeless body somewhere.

I was yanked away from my thoughts when I heard someone knocking. I stumbled out of the bed and hurriedly open the door. The two men don't seem to be the kind of men that you want to keep waiting and I don't want to be the one to test if that's true or not.

I was greeted by Fierro's handsome face when the door fully opened. Despite knowing what they are, it's not like I suddenly turned blind. Fierro is what most women consider a classic looker. He has a timeless, clean-cut appearance with a rough edge that couldn't be mistaken.

But the VIP.... That man was different. If Fierro has a rough edge, the other man was just plain rough. He's every bit as handsome—no, he was even more handsome—and I don't think that is the word that is best to describe him. Everything about him screams with intensity that the word alone is not enough.

Fierro is like the sky when it's about to rain. The VIP is like the sky when there's a thunderstorm. He has an untamed nature, and every bit of it feels dangerous.

"Allessio's making lunch. You have to eat now, or you're going to need to settle for airplane food later because we will be leaving in the afternoon."

So his name is Allessio.

Wringing my hands together, I followed him when he turned his back to walk to the kitchen. We found the VIP there highly focused on what he was doing, but my steps faltered when I saw that he was holding a huge knife.

His head went up and when his gaze landed on me, his brow knitted together. His gaze followed the direction of my stare, and the furrow between his eyebrows deepened when he saw me looking at the knife in his hand.

He pointed to the direction of the high stool in front of the middle island that is full of ingredients. "Sit down. I'll think about killing you after we're done with lunch."

My breath hitched, and Fierro let out a huge sigh before turning to me. "He's not being serious. You need to relax or you'll be the one killing yourself by having a brain aneurysm with how much you overthink."

I don't think that's how you get aneurysms, but I have no plans to correct him.

I gingerly took a seat on one of the stools, putting me directly in front of Allessio. I don't think I have the stomach to eat anything.

I'm not sure what the VIP is doing, but there's flour spread out in front of him, and he's operating a small machine that I'm not familiar with. There was something white coming out of the machine in small strands. Is that noodles?

As if sensing my attention, he glanced at me and said, "Do you like spaghetti?"

I tried not to grimace. I already ate a lot of it since it was the only thing I've been eating last week when it was on sale. "Uhh... sure."

He gave me a look that tells me that he doesn't believe me. "I don't deal with liars. What's your real answer?"

"I-I wasn't lying. It's just... I..."

"I'm not asking you to solve a world problem. Do you like spaghetti or not?"

What an asshole. "I do." When his face darkened, I quickly added, "I do like spaghetti. It's just that I've been eating it almost every day since last week."

"You know how to cook spaghetti?"

"Well... kind of. It was an instant one so it was easy to make."

I don't think Allessio is the kind of man who fears anything. But the look on his face right now is exactly that. He looks extremely horrified. "Instant?"

Is there no instant spaghetti in his country? And where exactly is his country? He looks European, but I hate to assume. For all I know, he's an Asian citizen. "Yes. There's a lot of variety for instant noodles here. There's a spaghetti one."

"Noodles are not pasta."

"Aren't they the same thing? They look the same."

Allessio lifted strands that came out of the machine he was using moments ago. "This is pasta. Freshly made pasta. This doesn't look like the noodles you're talking about because pasta is not noodles."

The way he said the word "noodles" sounded like he's cursing. What is it with noodles that he's so mad at it?

"Boss," Fierro called out to him. "Respectfully, just cook please." He, then, turned to me. "Don't start with him about pasta. Just nod at whatever he tells you and eat whatever he gives you."

"What I'm not going to give her is spaghetti that comes out of a packet." A string of foreign words fell from his lips at the same time that he started moving around the kitchen like he's angry about something.

It was then that it suddenly occurred to me. He's Italian. It's either that or he's Spanish. But by the vehemence he's showing because of an instant spaghetti, it's easier to believe that he's Italian because I don't think there's a person on the planet that is as passionate for their food than an Italian.

Italian. He's a criminal from Italy. An Italian criminal. Holy fuck!

"Are you... are you involved in the mafia?"

Fierro and Allessio shared a look but it was the latter who answered me. "That's one way to put it."

"What do you mean?"

"We prefer calling it a secret criminal society. Mafia sounded... old-fashioned, I guess."

"Secret criminal society is a mouthful. Mafia sounded better," I blurted out before I could stop myself.

I didn't give him time to say anything when I found myself shooting up to my feet. I stepped back, away from the two men, with tears streaming down my face. "Fuck, fuck, fuck! I'm really going to die. I'm in the hands of the mafia. My parents are involved with the mafia. I've been lied to, haven't I? I'm really going to be put in a crate and sold to the highest bidder. Maybe I had a better chance with the people going after me last night!"

I couldn't breathe. I feel like the air around me is thinning, and my vision is starting to blur as well, which I don't think is just because of my tears. I felt myself going sideways when strong arms caught me before I fell to the ground.

"Handle the cooking, Fierro. If it doesn't turn out right, I'm going to dock your salary."

I didn't got the chance to hear Fierro's answer when I was suddenly lifted from the floor.

"I—"

"Quiet," Allessio basically growled.

He deposited me on the sofa, and before I could make any movement, he put both of his hands on my side, trapping me between his arms.

"Breathe," he commanded.

"P-Please... please let me go."

"I gave you a choice last night. You stayed." His eyes flashed. "Now take a deep breath."

"Last night, I didn't know you're part of mafia."

"I'm not part of mafia."

"But... but you just said."

He leaned forward, and I stopped breathing again. "I'm not part of it. I am it." His gaze traveled all over my face. "Stop making me repeat myself. Breathe, piccola."

I did as he told me, fearing what would happen if I didn't. I repeated it a couple of times until the erratic beat of my heart started to slow down.

"Listen to me," he said firmly, in a tone that left no room for refusal. "Your parents owe money to a lot of people. Those going after you—do you really think that they're some small gangs going after what they're owed? Everyone involved with your parents is a major player, and players like that won't play a simple game with you, piccola. You recognized the word, but you don't know much. Mafia is just one of the many players in the criminal world, and your parents are involved in all of them."

Tears filled my eyes, and something crossed his own as he looked at me. My parents might not have been present most of my life, and the only sign that I have them is the money they were giving me every time I asked for it, but they are still my parents. It's hard to accept that I don't know anything about them, and they completely left me alone in a situation that no parent should leave their children in.

"You are part of this world, whether you like it or not. I can turn you over to the authorities, but do you really think they can keep you safe? Even if they do, how long would that be? Do you really think the police are enough to keep everyone that is waiting for you out there at bay? With all of them going after you and your family at the same time, not even the government in my country and yours combined would be willing to face all that." His eyes dropped to my lips for a quick second when they started quivering again before he focused it again on my face. "In this life, there will always be good and evil. They coexist more than you think they do. Because nothing good can fight true evil without turning evil themselves. That's when people like me comes in. Those of us who know how to live in between."

"S-So you're not true evil?"

"Depends on your perception of evil."

"Do you steal?" I asked.

"Petty theft? No. Extortion? Yes. Do we target small businesses or legitimate businesses? We don't. We're in the black market, and there's criminal organizations and illegal businesses that are under our protection."

"H-How about organ trafficking?"

"Why? Do you need yours replaced?" When I went white, he sighed, "No, we don't. If I'm going to need an organ, I could take it from people that no one will miss because they're far from being innocent. And before you ask it, we also don't do human trafficking."

"Drugs?"

"Yes," he answered without hesitation.

"Do you kill people?"

"Depends if that person deserves it."

He wasn't holding back. He's answering everything I ask, like he's not afraid to tell me the truth. In fact, I don't think he fears anything.

"What will I do... in that world?" I asked so quietly that at first, I wasn't sure he heard. "In your world?"

"I don't know."

My lips parted but to my surprise, he stopped me by placing a finger on it. He seems to be as surprised as I am because he pulled his hand away as if he had been burned.

"I can't make you believe that I won't hurt you, because no matter how many times I repeat it, I don't think you will fully believe me. But I'm going to say it one last time. I have no plans to kill you. I will not gain anything from it, and even if I do, I don't hurt women who don't deserve it. You have my word that I won't hurt you unless you steal from me, betray me, kill someone I treasure, and burn my empire to the ground—not one at a time but all at the same time." He straightened and moved back, putting a distance between us. "The only time that the word "killing" will involve the word "you" is if anyone tries to steal you from my territory and protection, tries to betray me to get to you, and tries to kill you. If that situation comes, I wouldn't be killing you. I would kill for you."

My heart started to beat fast again, but this time it was for a different reason.

"Why?"

The question I uttered was loaded with more unvoiced questions, and I know that he could hear it. But like before, he gave me nothing but honesty. "I don't know."

He started walking back to the kitchen, leaving me gazing blankly at the space he'd been in. He stopped for a second to glance at me. "Are you coming or do you want me to send someone to get you that travesty of a spaghetti you've been talking about?"

I don't know what's going to happen to me. Allessio doesn't even know what to do with me. But my life was already crumbling before I even met him. I was already at the bottom, and with the truth about my parents, I was about to fall deeper. I was already in hell. The kind that shows a future of pain and torture.

If stepping into Allessio's world means being dragged into a different kind of hell—one where I'm protected—do I really need to fight it?

At least this hell has a real spaghetti. The pasta kind. Not the noodles.