Chapter 11 (Kylie)

I didn't know that the Famiglia accepted men that were only half Italian, but what do I know about the Mafia, not much.

The stubble on his jaw is new. The dead look in his eyes as he approaches me isn't.

We never had much of a relationship.

Vincent was raised by his mother and until a year back he was only a name attached to a teenage boy.

But ever since that day in the restaurant I wanted him to notice me, like I noticed him. That day he wasn't just a guy with a name,

he became more,

even after he ignored me, pretending that I was nothing.

But why try so hard to pretend unless it could be something right?

It is no secret that I want to have a close relationship with him but not like the one I share with David and Michael, I want more. He knows that. I know he knows, because I told him recently. However, it would never be. I have accepted it.

What other choice do I have, when all he ever does is remind me I am nothing to him. I’m aware that my feelings for Vincent won’t just shut off.

It can't die without being flamed, because to kill something it would have to be rooted- a lifeline, a living thing.

My penchant for Vincent Stone has none and I'm sure his hatred for me, or ‘deep disregard’ as Reno put it, stems from that mere fact.

He wants me to whither, disappear but unfortunately for him I am front and center. Reno’s death came at a high price and soon the Famiglia would know who killed their own.

It wouldn't be long after that when they figure out why.

Taking in the crisp sour air, that mixed with the stench of decomposed flesh I don't take my eyes off the six foot three inch man as his muscular thighs swallow up the distance that separates us.

He stops next to me, the roughened texture of his suit jacket brushing my bare arm, eliciting shivers down my spine.

“What the fuck are you doing here Kylie? Go home! I’ll bring Diamond later.”

His eyes crinkle in what I can say is certain HATE.

Nostrils flared in disgust.

His mouth, his succulent mouth, his finest weapon, shattering me with just words.

I can spend hours talking about the times Vincent has hurt me with his skilled tongue,

but now,

today as I stand here with so much on my platinum plate, that statement,

his statement rips me.

I am weak in this moment, so frail. And as my tears threaten to spill even I too hate myself.

Robbing me of what little bit of self morality I have left.

My knee length dress feels like it's getting stripped off, leaving me naked, vulnerable , freezing in my pacific of torment.

I despise that my emotions give him so much power to hurt me, but it sickens me that he does it over and over again.

When will I learn to be strong enough to control my treacherous heart.

I am a strong person, I am tough, but why with Vincent Stone do I feel worthless and small.

“Marco and Deno were kind enough to extend the invitation to me,” I say.

My eyes focus beyond him, trying not to look at him, attempting my best to keep this voice of mine strong, “Reno was my friend, so please just, just leave me be Vincent.”

His eyes widen a mere fraction, the only evidence to his surprise.

The person in front of us turns around, her wrinkled face frowning, taking us both in- Vincent's angry scowl and my doughy eyes on full display. We shouldn't be having this conversation where we're standing.

Vincent has the same thoughts as I do and it isn’t long when I feel the bite of his fingers latching into the naked flesh on my arm, pulling me further away until we’re blocked by a tree a good few meters from the grave-site.

The sad thing about it?

I don't even care a dime that he's pulling me roughly, that there's no affection or deeper meaning to his actions.

I am like a deprived child given that which it craves, for that child it could be a dummy or milk, for me it’s Vincent Stone’s hand on my skin.

With a tiny step back, he drops my arm like it is infected. The action isn't enough to jolt me out of my stupidity I always possess in his presence.

Will anything ever be enough?