^^^I'd call him Jared.

////

If you have never been to a football practice, let me tell you this: watching a bunch of sweaty beef-men dribbling a ball here and there and running into each other is no fun. Honest.

Until you see a perfect shot to the groin.

'Ompf.' A linebacker, Greg something-or-the-other cups his balls in agony and writhes on the ground, while his teammates gather around him, faces contorted in equally painful grimaces.

I fight off a grin.

I am alone on the bleachers with my thoughts, Christian's backpack and Jared's rather smelly pair of socks for company. The sun's low, and the sky is a myriad of colors and I watch the team support their fallen comrade, sympathizing with his pain and leading him out of the arena.

The coach blows his whistle, and the others line back up. Christian flips the ball, streaking past defenders, and chucking a clean shot right up the goal post. The team cheers. I lean back on my elbows.

Christian Beneventi. I never thought he would've been a pro at football. He's a natural –I hate to admit – almost as good as Zach. Zach had been the best jock amongst the four, he had a natural incline towards the ball. Even though we had been home-schooled, Zach would be called to play by the high schools near us, and they would sneakily include him as the star of their team. He was the only one offered a full football scholarship at Oxford, and we had spent months prepping him up. We were all proud, all of us ready to fly out to London and settle down in colleges next to him so that we could hang out.

And then, it was all shattered. I was expected by my mother to take up the reins of the Mafia – a mere seventeen year old girl. Initially, my people were reluctant to be commanded by a girl, a teenager at that. But my mother bred me into a killing machine, with absolutely no compassion, and they were convinced. When my future was forced on me, my friends took up the burden with me, lifting me up. They gave up their dreams, just like me, though they had a choice.

It was hard on Zach. Football was his soul, his heartbeat, and he wanted to stay with me. I insisted he go, but he wouldn't even consider it. He left behind his dream, only to turn to the Mafia where he never found solace. None of us had, we all wanted to go beyond whatever the Mafia had in store for us. We wanted to be free, we wanted to have a life that wasn't the Mafia. We were born into the Mafia, yes, but we weren't ready to let it control us.

Zach had never even spoken of his dream since, his passion twisting away to a never ending addiction to alcohol and cigarettes.

I pick at my cuticles. What all had I lost? What all had we lost?

A supportive father, a loving brother, a caring mother, a wonderful family, a future with my friends.

All because of greed. All because one man let himself be blinded by hatred and greed so much that he slit the throat of a friend.

Arrigo Beneventi.

My nails dig into my palms as the name crosses my mind. The sky turns darker, but it must be my mood.

The Beneventi family and the Fiorentino family. I have never seen Arrigo, the seeds of rivalry between our families had been sown long before my birth. But the story goes that my grandfather and Christian's grandfather had been best friends. They led different families, but they were united –they had each other's backs covered. My dad grew up with Arrigo, even. Everything was perfect – a perfect alliance.

The only thing I remember about my grandfather is a weathered face of scars and his brisk, sharp voice, in which he told me the words that remain in my head, just like my mother's do : Al povero mancano tante cose, all'avaro tutte.

I had been too young to understand what it meant, but I know now. It means that the poor man is lacking many things, the greedy man all.

I guess it was his way of telling me what went wrong.

Greed swallowed up the friendship between our grandfathers. The Beneventi's wanted more shares, more on-hand operations, more let-outs on dealings. It was only after a failed assassination attempt on my granddad's life did we know that Beneventi had traded tables – they had joined forces with our foes.

Thus began a saga of enmity. Beneventi looted us, spied on us, traded with our secrets. It would be a lie if we say we just let it go. We were a Mafia family, an Italian one at that. We consider backstabbing as the worst form of insult. We fought back too. We killed their spies, we backtracked their allies.

When my dad and Arrigo came of age, the battle shifted to them. But my father was sure Arrigo would never be a threat to his life – how could he? They were raised almost all of their lives like brothers; they had been fed from the same plate, they had slept on the same bed. They had been best friends, and friends were for life, no matter what.

My father had been right about many things, but he was wrong about his friend.

I take in a shaky breath and try to reign in my thoughts. I can't be thinking about it, not now. Instead of letting my mind wander, I focus on the field, my eyes being pulled to a sweaty Christian, as if I am drawn to him. He rubs his palms on his shorts, and thrusts his hands through his hair. As if he feels my eyes on him, he turns my way and locks our gazes.

I don't look away.

Whenever I look at Christian, I find it hard to believe that he is Arrigo's son. He is mostly very friendly, a star with the ladies, a gentleman, a perfect student. He sleeps around a lot, I admit, but most devilishly good looking guys can't keep it in their pants. Take Jared, for instance. Christian is everything I am not, though both he and I come from same backgrounds. NYU doesn't know that he is from a Mafia family, something even I would doubt, if I hadn't known it for sure. Blade's background check on him came up with absolutely nothing, the same result when anybody searches for Alex Fiorentino. We simply don't exist.

Apart from the fact that he practically ripped my head off when he first saw me (He had every reason to!) and the not-so-harmless-pranks, Christian did not have that murderous gene in him. I don't think he feels that wild adrenaline in him, the rush to kill, to punch, to hit, to inflict serious damage, like I always want to do.

He is more... human.

I twist the ring around my finger, again. It's starting to become an irritating habit, just like how I roll my eyes. His fiancée. I wonder what my dad would've said if he had known I was dating his friend-turned-archenemy's son. Danielle would have punched the daylights out of him, if he ever came close.

But I would never know.

They are dead.

Whenever I look at Christian's cropped hair and green eyes, I almost forget that he and Arrigo are cut from the same cloth. I shouldn't be doing that. The Christian I see can be a mirage, and from where I come from, smoke and mirrors are part of life.

It's Christian who breaks his gaze first, and he dives for the ball.

The rest of the game is pretty boring. There are no more shots to the groin, though Greg still winces from the by stands, a pack of ice between his legs.

Christian gestures to me to come down to the field, and so I pick up my stuff, use my pinkie to lift Jared's socks, and my other hand to grab Christian's backpack. I toss the socks onto Jared the moment I reach the ground.

'Sweet Mary, Mother of Jesus! These stink!' Jared sniffs at the socks before he gags.

'I need to take a shower.' Christian declares, reaching around me to pull out my water bottle from the back pocket of my bag. He pours the water all over his head, and shakes his head like a wet dog.

I curl my lips in disgust. 'Yuck.'

Christian comes closer to me, shaking his head vigorously.

'Did you say something, O Girlfriend of Mine?'

I push him back, but he keeps coming closer. 'Get away from me.'

'I seriously can't see what the problem is.' He smirks, raising an arm to wrap around me. I cover my nose.

'Don't . I'll die of suffocation. Go shower, you moron.'

Jared smiles too. He extends the socks to me. 'Here, keep these, Midgardian.'

'Thanks for the very tempting offer.' I eye the slightly yellowed socks. 'But I've got to say no.'

'So polite.' Christian gives me a crooked, cunning smirk. 'Must be the British thing.'

'Aristocracy.' Jared says, pulling out a can of soda.

'Say what?'

'British aristocracy.'

'Yeah, that.'

They take turns to shower, one of them keeping me company. If company meant warding off their own teammates if they should show much of a slight interest in me. Christian and I spent five minutes not saying anything, while Jared and I spent ten minutes talking about Minions.

'Chris is a lady when it comes to his bath.'

'Oi.' Christian pops out, freshly showered. 'I heard that.'

He is about to reach for his backpack when his phone rings. He pulls it out.

I sneakily note the caller ID. Alice.

Who the hell is Alice?

His sister? Does he have a sister? His girlfriend? He doesn't do girlfriends. Or does he?

Maybe, what if, once upon a time, he did?

The color drains off Christian's face. Jared notes it too, he grows pale.

'Alice?' His voice is a whisper.

He knows Alice too? It's definitely a girlfriend. Or the evil ex, guessing by the pale as death complexions.

Christian answers it, moving away from us. His face is furrowed with worry lines and his answers are short.

'Yes.'

'Okay.'

'Yes.'

'Okay.'

He listens patiently, but I am too far away to even catch words. After what seems like a long time, Christian speaks, his voice a broken sound.

'Is he okay?'

His expression is pained.

I have seen pain. A lot. I have seen the way Eduardo's eyes darted around in pain when I broke his fingers. I have seen people set on fire, bodies riddled by bullet holes, slit throats, bleeding wounds. There have been a lot of cut arms, dangling bones, pulled out teeth and even kicks to the balls.

But Christian's pain is different. It is not a physical pain, but an emotional one – the kind that rips out your soul and tears it in half, the one that makes you feel as if your heart is bleeding. I know it because I have experienced it myself; it is the pain of having lost a loved one.

The pain on his face is so intense it mirrors my own – I have to force myself not to reach out to him.

'Okay.'

'Okay.'

Then, 'Bye, Alice.'

He kills the call and grabs his bag from my hands.

Jared fumbles around in his pant pockets and pulls out the keys to his Camaro. 'Here, man.'

Christian takes it, without the fuss I have come to associate with him.

'I have to go.' Christian looks at me, awkwardly. He opens his mouth and abruptly closes it; he is battling with himself whether to let me know or not.

'It's okay,' I say, soothing my voice. It's not okay, I want to know.

I reach out and gently touch his arm. 'Go.'

Christian smiles at me. I am too stunned to acknowledge it, that I stand astonished. It wasn't a blown out full smile the kind he gives Rachel and Jared, but it was a smile nonetheless, albeit a sad one.

I blink.

Christian fist-bumps Jared before giving him a pointed look, and Jared nods -apparently it was all some bro-code language. Then he turns around and leaves, his head bent down.

I am still standing stunned, the memory of his smile repeating itself in my head, like a record in a loop.

He was just acknowledging the fact that I respected his privacy and was showing his gratitude, expressing it without words. There wasn't much to read into it.

There wasn't.

////

Wasn't there?

Well, if you insist.

And oh, click on the star at the top of the page, okay? It's like directly connected to my life's happiness. 

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More action, coming soon.

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