Wild One

Eleven

Niccolo

I wish I could I say I didn't do it to spite him. But in my hardened heart, I knew I did. The very next day, I visited Manon.

We walked, talked, like usual. Something was different though. Something in her eyes when she looked at me.

A glimmer that wasn't really there before. I denied it.

When you grow up in the Mafia one of the first things you're taught is Deny.

Deny. Deny. Deny.

Talk your way around it. Even if the evidence is damning, you keep denying until they pin in it on you, you whack em, or corrupt em.

That girlish gleam in her eyes couldn't be a crush. Of course not.

Neither was all the hair twirling or the fact that she wore a dress to meet me, or even the fact she asked me my number and giggled when I gave it to her.

Giggled.

She's a smart girl. She wants to be journalist when she grows up, interns at a newspaper.

Something she conveniently forgot to tell me. It's obvious she has an inkling as to who I am, and so, obviously, she'd be smart enough to not to make such a horrendous mistake like, oh, I don't know—

Falling for me.

It's not like she's had time to do a stupid thing like that anyway. We've only been talking for a week or so. It's not like I spend most my day with her.

I might bring her lunch, we may talk a walk, but it's not enough to think she's fallen in love.

So what if she's still a little girl. She's a smart girl. She has some growing up to do, and really—

I scoff internally as I watch her full lips move as she tells me about something I'm not interested in.

I've never been one to deny the truth. Even when it hurts like a b***h. When Dena and the baby were killed I didn't deny it. I didn't waste time crying. Asking why.

Does it matter why?

Why will not bring them back. Why will not bring them justice.

Deny for what? What will denying get you in life?

It's best that I let this develop, and if it seems like she's getting too...involved, too deep in this silly crush of hers, I'll cut it off.

After all, it's natural, especially at her age, to have these crushes—I am man, she is a young woman, who is attractive, I show her attention however friendly, she may get it misconstrued.

If it becomes an issue, I'll address it.

She frowns, letting me know I've missed some prompting of hers.

“Scusami, repeat the question, pulcino.”

She takes her bottom lip between her teeth pensively. “I was asking if you...if you had a girlfriend.”

“Yes,” I clear my throat.

Her face falls as she pastes on a smile. “Oh...that's okay.”

I quirk a brow at the statement. “Yes it is. Speaking of which, have you found any boys your age that you're interested in.”

Manon looks down, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Not really. They're all so... immature. I'm interested in more... experienced men. You know what I mean?’

She looks so hopeful. I swallow.

“I think you should stick to someone in your own age group, pulcino, sí?”

We both know the conversation we're really having.

“No! I don't like guys my age.”

I sip a glass of wine to cool my nerves.

“Then perhaps you should wait until you've grown a bit."

She's getting frustrated. Her brows crease, her lips purse in discontent. It's adorable, really.

“I'm not a child, Niccoló. I'm 18 years old.”

I smile at her soothingly. “Yes, and your government tells you that means you're an adult, no? But is that really true? Have you lived at 18?”

“I've lived plenty!”

Now she's less frustrated, and more angry.

“For free, pulcino. In your parents house, where they take care of your needs. Like una bambina. Because that is what you are still, a child.”

Manon sits back in defeat, setting her fork down. “I'd like to go home now please.”