12| red

ELIJAH

I adjust the red boxing gloves and punch into the punching bag again, the sweat apparent on my face as I hit, taking another hit, with every punch making sure to let all the negative emotions out. I'm in my own world, focused on the bag, when I hear a voice calling my name. But I ignore it, getting in two quick punches again.

"Son," I hear again, and I push the punching bag away, letting it swing slightly. I already know who the voice belongs to, and the thought alone is enough to agitate me.

"What is it?" I ask gruffly, not even turning around.

"I'm still your father, Elijah. You'll have to respect me while you're still under my roof," he says, his voice firm but laced with a hint of desperation.

I rip off the closing of the gloves using my teeth, freeing my hands, and put them where they belong. "Good thing it won't be for long," I say to the man, my eyes fixed on the punching bag.

He sighs, and I can sense his frustration. It's a bit too late for my father to start acting like one - a father, that is. He's expecting me to welcome him with open arms, like I've forgotten his abuse and absence. His desire for me to take over his empire is laughable, considering he once put a gun to my head at 11 because I refused to shoot an innocent woman.

I don't know how my mom got with him or even what she saw in him, but I guess whatever it was, she got over it. She started coming home with different men every night, and my father always spoke about how inviting new people every chance she got was bad for business. But it's not like my mom ever listened - which is why she moved out.

And the only reason why my sister and I stayed with my father is because mom was also never there, and he wanted to make us his little pawns, something he could use and benefit from.

"Rocco has information on the family we're tracking down. I expect you to be in charge of it," he says, his voice firm, like he's giving me an order.

Of course, he did. He always tries to manipulate me, use me for his gain.

"The little friend your sister invited..." He trails off, his words causing me to turn around, my eyes glaring at him.

He has his whisky in hand, like always, and I can sense his condescending tone. "She's 17, you old geezer. I don't think you're her type," I say, my voice laced with sarcasm.

He lifts his hand up in surrender, a fake smile on his face, before his expression turns serious again. "Just make sure she's out of my house by tonight," he says, patting me on the back before leaving.

I take the opportunity to take a quick shower, erasing his prints off my skin, trying to wash away the feeling of disgust and anger he always leaves me with.

The house is quiet as I make my way into the kitchen, the only sound being the soft hum of the refrigerator. I flip the towel around the back of my neck and open the fridge, taking out the protein shake I had already prepped. I take a gulp of it, the taste familiar and comforting, and walk out of the kitchen, the shake still in my hand.

But I stop dead in my tracks when my eyes spot a shadow out of the corner of my eye. I look in the direction of the shadow, my eyes scanning the room, and walk further into the living room. The closer I get, the more familiar the figure becomes. It's her - the girl my sister invited over.

I take another sip of my shake and watch as she examines the photo frames on the wall. Most of them are just pieces of art, but there are a few family pictures scattered among them. You'd mostly find those at my mom's house, though. She runs her hands over the frames, her fingers tracing the edges, and then she comes across something on the coffee table.

It's a camouflage Tom Ford book - one of those fake books that's just for decoration. And before she can pick it up, I speak up. "I don't think you want to see that," I say, my voice low and even.

The words seem to scare her, and she drops the glass in her hand. The piercing sound of shattering glass fills the room, and she turns around, her eyes wide with horror. "Crap, I'm so sorry," she says, bending down to pick up the pieces.

I set my shake down and walk over to help her. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to do that," she says, her hands shaking, her breathing heavy. I can see the fear in her eyes, and it's a sight that's foreign to me.

Within a split second, I see the red liquid coming out of the center of her palm. "Hey, hey, hey, it's okay," I say, opening her other palm and removing the broken pieces. "But -" she starts to say, her voice trembling.

"Shh, it's just a glass," I say, my voice calm and reassuring. I help her to her feet and lead her over to the couch. "Sit down," I say, and she listens.

I head to the kitchen and grab the First aid kit. It's something we keep in every part of the house, considering people come back home dripping in blood every other day. I return to the living room and sit down next to her, gently taking her hand in mine.

As I clean and bandage her cut, our eyes meet, and neither of us dare to look away. It's a moment that's both foreign and familiar. One of the maids comes in and cleans up the mess, but we barely notice. We're too caught up in each other's eyes, the tension between us palpable.

Nadia twitches twice, something I notice she does a lot, and that says a lot since I hadn't even known her for that long. She then clears her throat, her eyes still fixed on the artwork. "What a lovely piece," she says, her voice filled with genuine admiration, referring to one of the pieces she was looking at earlier.

I briefly explain the meaning behind it, and she listens intently, her eyes sparkling with interest. But then, she asks the question that's been on her mind. "Why were you watching me?" she asks, her voice laced with a hint of curiosity.

Good question. "Because I thought you were some intruder," I reply, my voice even.

She chuckles, a soft, melodious sound. "What, are there usually?" she asks, her eyes sparkling with amusement, as if she's joking. But little does she know, there is.

"Not really, but you were snooping around," I say, my eyes narrowing slightly.

She looks away, a slight smile playing on her lips. "Sorry about that," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

We move away from the coffee table, but her eyes dart back to it, her gaze fixed on the camouflage Tom Ford book. "Speaking of, why did you say that about the book?" she asks, her voice laced with curiosity.

I clench my jaw, my mind racing with the secrets that book holds. It's not just a book - it's a symbol of the life I've been forced into, a life of guns, violence, and loyalty. "Don't ask things you'll regret knowing the answers to," I say, my voice low and even, a warning hidden beneath the surface. "Remember that curiosity killed the cat,"

Her eyes lock onto mine, and I could tell she wasn't expecting me to say that. Clear by the look in her eyes she knows that there's more to this book, to this life, than meets the eye - although it was just a gun but I know that she's not ready to the truth.