Maldini’s pov;
I was eating when they came up to me.
That alone was enough indication that something was wrong.
No man in his right sense disturbed me while I ate, unless blood had already spilled, or it was about to. The room smelled of grilled chicken and garlic, the kind my mama used to snuggle from the rich man’s house she worked to give me because she knew I liked it.
My mama was the cook, but she was never allowed to eat the meal she prepared and she didn’t have enough resources to make me a proper meal. But in all of that, she tried her best for me. The best that she could as a poor immigrant with a child.
Mi madre.
I thought of her as I tore a piece of meat with my finger slowly and chewed. She had done all she could to give me a better life. She was kind and honest, if you
