"Mio bambina--"

"Papa, do not call me that, you know I'm over that."

Your father rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. "Fine, I was just trying to remind my daughter that I love her, or is that too much?"

Currently, you sat on your father's lavish couch, flipping through a newspaper to search for possible job offers. You saw a few already, but none of them really seemed to pique your interest.

With a sigh, he sat came from behind the couch and sat down next to you, gently taking the newspaper out of your hands, setting it down on to the rich oak nightstand that stood next to the couch.

"Look, I know you've been hard on yourself, looking for a job and everything..." His eyes glint to the newspaper beside him.

"So, I've gotten some help--"

You narrowed your eyes. "You mean you got your job, involved, didn't you?"

He sighs, your father pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes shut.

He knew you didn't like his profession, or whatever he liked to call it. His, business. Every time he would come home, covered in blood, you were mortified.

Well, as a child, anyway. As a child, it was truly shocking to see your father come home and see him covered in head to toe in blood.

At first, it was innocent. Maybe five or six years old, your mother had told you that he had gotten in an accident at work, which was, at first a butcher shop. Then, it changed to a restaurant, it was the spaghetti sauce that time, or some juice, or once again, an accident when cutting meat.

Of course, you believed them. How could you not? You were small, innocent, pure; candida.

Then, as you grew older, you began to realize that maybe your father wasn't working at a restaurant after all.

You would hear your parents arguing at night while getting up to go get a glass of water, creeping downstairs and sitting at the top of the stairs to peek through the railing just to hear them bicker in the kitchen.

You would hear your mother telling your father to never come home if he came home looking like that. As if, being covered in head to toe in spaghetti sauce was such a sin.

Then she began to talk about how the kids shouldn't be seeing it, and if he came home that it should be when the kids were in bed.

It was either that or that he should bring a change of clothes with him.

You kept asking yourself why in the world would being covered in spaghetti sauce or juice be so awful that children couldn't be allowed to see it?

Then, it dawned on you. Papa was coming home covered in blood.

You knew it couldn't be cow blood, or chicken blood, or pig blood--no, there was something deep down inside of you telling you that it wasn't any of those things. It had to be human blood, it had to be.

Later on, you remembered seeing him take briefcases or duffle-bags to work just about every day. Your eyes would follow those thin, brown, leather cases in his hand as he would walk out the door, kissing his family or waving goodbye while flashing a kind smile to everyone.

That would add up to your confusion, only confirming your suspicions more. Why would he need a briefcase at a restaurant? Unless, he was a manager of some sort, but you knew your father. You were old enough to understand adult conversations, and at Sunday dinners, your father would go on and on relentlessly about the meat in the restaurant.

There was no way he was telling the truth.

Each and every day he came home covered in blood, you began to grow numb and get used to it. You would look up while sitting in the living room watching television with your siblings and see your father come in the front door--clothes, painted in blood--and then you'd blink, not giving it a second thought before turning your eyes back to the T.V.

He'd nod at you and your siblings before walking past the television set to go upstairs and change.

That was probably when you were thirteen or fourteen years old.

But then, everything began to change about two years later.

The blood began to stop.

Instead, he'd come home in expensive suits and with bigger, bulkier suitcases.

He would bring home gifts instead of small nods and short walks to the upstairs.

You thought he must've gotten a different job and cleaned up--but no, he would've bragged about it at the dinner table to mother.

Instead, he had just gotten promoted. He was getting money, quickly, and soon he started owning butcher shops and narcotic stores, and just about every damn shop in town.

Instead of living in some dingy two-story house smushed in a small street in Queens, you began to live in bigger houses in Queens, moving farther and farther out of the inner city's limits--each becoming fancier by the minute.

You began to feel fine, completely forgiving your father of his past nature as you began to collect more and more material items from him, but then one night changed everything.

You remember it like it was yesterday.

You had gotten up in the middle of the night because you had wakened up with an anxiety-ridden feeling, so you went to the bathroom to go relieve yourself when suddenly you were stopped in your tracks after hearing a loud thud.

It was dark and quiet. You were on the walkway that was connected to the staircase that hung overhead the living room which was dimly lit.

Carefully, like you had when you were a child, you crept down the stairs, placing one foot in front of another slowly, not wanting to creak the wooden boards from underneath your feet.

When you decided that you could now hear what was going on, you sat down on the stairs, and with your heart in your throat, you listened carefully, tuning into the hushed whispers.

"What do you want us to do with the body?"

"Throw it out back. I'll have it hauled out before tomorrow morning, don't worry about it, Johnny."

Your eyes widened slowly, your heart was racing now, and you knew, you knew that you didn't dare turn your head to see what they were talking about, but damn it.

You should've kept your head away from the commotion, because you weren't ready for your suspicions to come true.

There, on the floor, in front of the front door, lied a dead body, and behind it lied a trail of blood, along with three men--one of them your father--covered in head to toe in blood, and the body... The body looked mutilated.

You could feel tears beginning to brim on the corners of your eyes so quickly you rushed upstairs, surely making a noise for your father to hear downstairs but you didn't care.

You ran up and up, not giving a care in the world that he might've heard you. You just thought that he didn't do any of that stuff anymore, and you believed it. How could you be so naive? How could he shower you in gifts and make you believe that he was a good person?

You felt sincerely betrayed that night and quickly ran to your room and slammed the door, immediately rushing under your covers and falling down into the mattress with wet streaks running down your face, followed by wet, quiet sobs seeping from your chest.

From there, you had vowed to never get involved with your father's business.

The thought of killing someone then simply dumping them--as if they had never lived a life or had a family, raked through your mind painfully, and it tore you apart, knowing that they were now dead--could never, ever, cross your mind as something so simple and doable.

Never.

"Bambina--"

"Papa!" You snap, looking at your father who quickly turned his attention to you. "Stop it, right this instant. You know I would never join your stupid... Job, or whatever you call it."

"Bambina, I'm not going to hire you for my job. "

You blinked, confused at your father's wishes. Had you heard him right? Just about every other sibling had been put into his line of work or taken in the family business. Why not you?

"Sorry?"

Your father sighed, shrugging, his hands moved when he talked. "Yes, my... Job, may have gotten involved in you being able to get this position, but it's nothing terrible. "

You felt yourself to begin to relax, and slowly you sank back down into the plush couch.

"Well, what is it then?"

He smiled, opening his arms in a grand gesture as if he were giving you the best news in the world. "You're a secretary!"

You rose an eyebrow, somewhat wary at this. It seemed all too good.

"Secretary? Where?"

Your father lowered his arms, still, a great big smile on his face. "An estate of course!"

You narrowed your eyes and crossed your arms, becoming somewhat defensive at this odd position. "An estate?"

"Sì! An estate. "

"What kind of estate?"

"Oh, you know how estates are..." Your father downcast his eyes, looking away from you, and quickly you sat back up--his tell of lying was too easy, you knew this wasn't some kind of regular job.

"Papa. I'm not going to--"

"Oh please bambina!" Your father clasps his hand over yours and gives it a soft squeeze, his face dropped in expression after your clear statement of not wanting to be apart of any of it. "You have to! Mancini made--"

"Mancini?!" You quickly rose to your feet, furious at your father's partake in this. "Papa I can't--"

And just as your anger began to boil inside of you, your father rose up off of the couch quickly, his hands quickly turned into fists out of pure rage.

"Listen! Mancini made a deal with Cielo! He promised him a secretary, and we offered you to fill the position! It was part of our agreement to stop this family war! The same war that killed your brother!"

Immediately, it felt as if a heavy rock sank to the bottom of your stomach--no, your father wasn't offering you this position, instead, he was telling you that you had to take it. This wasn't a choice.

"You are part of this agreement, bambina, and you can't break away from it. "

You pursed your lips together, downcasting your eyes in thought, your fingers tapped your arm.

You wanted to say no, there was so much of your morality that was willing you to say no, and turn away from this family no matter what, but by god--if it meant saving your famiglia, and having peace for your brother's sake, then you knew you would have to work for whoever this Cielo was.

"Fine. I'll do it. "

Quickly, as if he had never been harsh, your father's angry demeanor faltered, and a kind smile appeared on his face before enveloping you into a warm hug. "Grazie bambina! I promise you, your brother would be so proud. " He pulled away, his hands cupped your face before giving them a soft squeeze, making you giggle slightly. "Now! Go get your things. I'll have Angelo wait for you in the car."

Reluctantly, you left the conversation and went to go pack your things. Despite having all of this pent up anger over your father and his job, and this whole mafia business, you knew it was best for your family.

Eventually, you had all your things packed up and made your way to the car--a long, outstretched, black Coupe sat in the gravel driveway where Angelo had been waiting outside of.

The young man smiled and greeted you before taking your luggage and slipping it inside of the trunk while you got in and sat in the back of the car.

You heard the trunk slam shut and saw Angelo come from the side and sit in the driver's seat.

He turned around and smiled at you, an almost excited smile.

"You excited for your new job, miss?"

You sighed, downcasting your eyes to the floor, not excited at all. Here you were, about to leave your family and work for another family, just as a part of a contract so these families could keep the peace.

"Just drive, Angelo. I'll tell you if I'm excited or not on the way there."