He Owns The Mafia But I’m The Queen.

I was turning thirteen the night the world as I knew it came to an end. This was supposed to be a joyous occasion. My parents had been getting ready for weeks. My mother dabbed at my hair and my dress, smoothing the pastel pink fabric against my shoulders. “You’ll look beautiful tonight,” she said. Her smile was warm, a little shaky. “Absolutely perfect.” I nodded, feeling uncomfortable in the thick fabric. I wasn’t used to wearing dresses, but her enthusiasm made me want to think I looked good. My father was standing in the doorway in his suit, his chest out, his hands steady but his eyes shining with pride. His hand reached out for mine, and I took it. Never felt so safe in my life. The hallway was full of music and laughter and light. Candles were burning, casting a shadow that was a warm, burnished gold. People were happy. Everything seemed safe. Everything seemed normal. Suddenly, a very loud and chilling noise cut through everything. It started with one sound, like firecrackers going off in my chest. Everyone froze. I turned to my mother, but before I could call out her name, she toppled. Blood splattered the floor, vibrant and surreal. I just couldn’t understand it. I wouldn’t let my brain accept what was happening. “Mom?” I whispered. My father pushed me behind him. His hands were trembling. His face went white. A s**t rang out. Then another. Glass broke. Music ceased. Screams erupted in the hall. I was pushed aside. I was able to move my legs, but I couldn’t reach. I struggled to get up, to reach them, but hands were holding me back. I was being pulled away as I wailed and pleaded. Nobody listened. Nobody stopped. When I opened my eyes the second time, I was somewhere else. I was no longer in the hallway. My parents were absent. Snatched from me in mere seconds. Gone. I was moved to Saint Mary’s Home for children the next morning. It smelled of bleach, dust, and something sour. The walls were grey. The floors were cold. The beds were small and hard. The windows were high up, so little sunlight came in. “Hello,” greeted Mrs. Scarrwith, the caretaker, with a little stiff smile. “You’ll be fine here,” she said, her voice, sweet but empty. “This is your new home now.” I did not believe her. I was lead to a crowded dormitory. Other children stood silently, some curiously, most out of fear. Whispers were shared behind lifted hands, glances flickering towards me. I didn’t grasp at first. Then I learned quickly. Fear lingered on the campus. It ran deep. But every night, once other kids were asleep, I lay on that hard bed, looking up at the ceiling. My brain wouldn’t even let me cry. My ribs hurt like I had something cold spreading through them. I remembered my parents. Their soothing touch, my mother’s trembling smile. I remembered gunfire, the smell of blood. I understood at that moment that I would no longer be protected by anyone. Silence was my friend, observation was my shield. I listened for each and every sound. Learned each face. Recognized each pattern. Each step that Mrs. Scarrwith made. Each whispered through the hallway. Each child that was led away in the night. I listened because I had to. It became the only means for survival. The next morning, I started to learn the lessons. Wake up before the sun. Eat what they give. Work without complaint. Speak only when spoken to. Those who disappeared at night never came back the same. It was a cruel world and I quickly learned. I spotted a girl sitting in the corner of the room. She was around my age, and she was very shy with eyes that seemed old beyond her years. She offered me the other half of her bread without saying a word. “I lost my parents too,” she whispered. Her name was Allison. And from that moment onward, there came a silent understanding between us. There just wasn’t a person who could possibly understand what it is like to have lost everything in the span of one night. Someone who could understand the feeling of having been pulled, pulled away from heaven, pulled into a cage of fear. We had little to say to each other, yet nothing needed to be said. Survival offered us a language. Observation formed our plan. Kindness, guarding, and listening were our currency. “I understood, even at age thirteen, that if I were to survive in this place, I had to be strong. I had to know when to cry and how loud to cry, and I definitely couldn’t draw attention to myself. I had to watch, listen, and wait. And I had to know to make use of the tiny benefits I could derive from this environment,” she explained. So this is how I spotted the first flaws. Some of the children were favored. Some were beaten worse than others. Some of the staff were whispering to certain visitors, and Donatello was mentioned. I just knew in my gut that it was all being done by this family. The people who owned the orphanage. The people who control our lives. I disliked them from the start. I whispered a promise to myself that night as I lay in bed with Allison. “I’ll survive. And one day. I’ll make them pay.” The room was silent. Too silent. But I heard footsteps down the hall. I heard a click of a lock. I heard a watching presence. There always was, and I knew that the time for revenge would come sooner than I thought.