I pulled out the chair from the white desk and opened the black sketchbook along the surface. There were pencils already lined up along the desk, all ordered by how hard the lead was. I picked up the 2H pencil and began the outline.
The pencil slid across the sketchbook paper easily enough. I pushed my long brown hair behind my ear and focused along the jawline, sharpening it with each stroke. I wondered if I could capture the essence of his strong features, alongside those eyes that felt as though they’d pierced me like daggers.
Drawing him was difficult—he had a strong face. It seemed as though each edge was sharp from his jawline to his chin and his nose. It was very romanesque, almost like a statue. Then there was that cold stare.
The pencil slid across the paper, making small scratching sounds that seemed to reverberate throughout the quietness of my room. I pressed down on the pencil, hoping that the dark outline would add an even more intense feeling to the portrait. It was getting each hair of his dark mane, which was short on the sides, and longer on top. Some of it fell along his forehead, but he seemed to push it back often enough that it wasn’t noticeable.
I switched it out to a 3B pencil, forcing it down onto the page to the point where I thought I’d break through the thick sketch paper. I swept across the page with the pencil back and forth until it showed his thick, dark hair, and moved onto the stubble that he kept along his strong jaw. I added each short strand one by one until it began to resemble him.
I didn’t want him coming across as too scary in my portrait. Of course, there were aspects of him that were terrifying. No, not terrifying. Intimidating. His sheer size was enough to cause anyone to look at him a second time, nervous as to whether he’d approach. Then there was his gaze. He kept the same expression throughout the entire time that I was in the same room as him—it was unnerving to see someone who hardly reacted to their surroundings. I could only imagine how calm and collected he was in high-stress situations. Angelo Cavetti must have had a hand in his son's demeanor. It was the only explanation.
There was something more, though. And I wasn’t sure I’d be able to capture it. I didn’t even think I would be able to understand it.
And maybe it was better that way.
2
Marcello
So this was the Bonifacio house. It had a splendor to it. Nothing that was overly gaudy, as my father had suspected and talked about before we arrived. Still, it wasn’t anything that I would choose for my own home decor. There were far too many animal prints for my liking, alongside some ugly paintings that I’d never hang up. I always thought there was beauty in simplicity—too much decor became an eyesore.
The Bonifacio’s had certainly filled every section of their house with things that were unneeded. A painting here, a carpet there, and random vases that looked as though they were the work of a young art student. It made me glad that my own family had more of a minimalist approach to our house.
Lorenzo Bonifacio was just as annoying as I expected him to be. Romeo was unbothered, as was my father, but there was an arrogance to him that emanated from every word he said. It was almost like he had an accent for being an asshole.
I stared at the girls as they lined up like well-trained dogs, standing at the bottom of the winding staircase behind them with their tails between their legs. The only one that seemed even remotely comfortable was Lucia, who was already looking to take Romeo away, as she approached him and led him through the large wooden doors into another room.
Luckily Romeo was already set up with her.
But there they were—the twins that no one really mentioned. What were their names again? I stared at them, wondering what they were. Alexandra and China? No. That wasn’t it. I grimaced at the thought of being forced to talk to them. They were like puppies who’d wandered into a den of wolves, and it was obvious that they were nervous. Their faces were easy to read.
I couldn’t fathom how two mafia princesses were nervous at all. They were the complete opposite of my sister, Natalia, who feared nothing. Natalia was known for her anger and fierceness, both qualities that the girls in front of me lacked. That much was obvious. Neither of them could even keep eye contact. It was disappointing. Lucia had always been brazen around my family. The twins, on the other hand, were tense, on edge.
One looked as though she was humming, her full lips formed into a frown. The other one was just as timid, but pursed her lips, which showed off a sole dimple on the left side of her face. I couldn’t help but want to reach out and graze my fingers across it. It was a feature I’d only ever seen on my mother, and it drew me in immediately. She reminded me of a cornered animal, nervously looking at us as though we were going to start hurting them immediately.
The Bonifacio’s were an old family, and they came from a wealth that my family hadn’t even been able to amass yet. With that came the respect they held in the criminal underworld. Being there, in their home, it was impossible not to recognize it. I wondered why their daughters would be so nervous in our presence when they were part of one of the most respected families in our area. I knew that my brothers would never allow themselves to be seen with any kind of weakness. We’d been taught to hide any emotions that could betray us.
All of them were overdressed for the occasion, except for the dimpled one. She was wearing a floral dress, while her sister was wearing a low-cut turquoise dress that reminded me of something a girl would wear to prom. Their mother was even more ostentatious. She had gaudy rings on her fingers and that were far too large, and gold accessories on each visible part of her body. She reminded me of those women who tried to make up for lost beauty by the way they dressed. Mixing that with the stiffness of her face, likely caused my botox, and she was the walking cliche of a mafia don’s wife.
Her dress was short, revealing her long legs. I grimaced at the sound of Lorenzo Bonifacio’s voice when he called out to his daughters as he walked up towards them. They looked to each of their names, and it was then that I knew who they were. Chiara and Alessandra. The one with the left dimple was Chiara and, although they were identical, I was drawn to Chiara. I wanted to take that short dress of hers and lift it, taking her right there.
I wanted to feel her soft skin pressed against me, and her dark hair in the palm of my hands. It was difficult to refrain once the thought was embedded in my mind. I had to hold myself back from her, allowing her father the space to speak to her. The desire to hear her moan caused a warmth to form in my dark wash jeans. I had to shift from one leg to the other, trying to ease the sensation. I couldn’t pace in their home, but I could try to move around to relax myself.
I couldn’t tell what he was saying to them, but he was whispering, before heading back towards my father. I clenched my teeth, forcing myself to stand a few feet away from them. Chiara must have felt me looking at her as she kept averting her eyes, as though intimidated by me. I couldn’t blame her—I often had that effect on people.
I was the largest of the brothers and I wasn’t exactly a teddy bear. I hadn’t meant to cause her fear, not that it worried me too much—it wasn’t like we’d see much of each other from that moment on. I wouldn’t have minded getting to know her on a physical level, but I wasn’t sure about someone that meek. It was a bore.
But I had to play nice.
We were about to make a truce with the Bonifacio’s. It was a legendary day, by any means. All I needed to do was have a few drinks and listen to their stupid conversations. I’d dealt with worse nights. The number one thing I had to do was stay away from that twin. There was something about her that drew me in. I didn’t need anything to distract me. Not when we were on the brink of cementing ourselves in the criminal underworld.
* * *
My heart skippeda beat at the sound of a gunshot going off. I was in the living room with my sister, Natalia, whose eyes widened at the loud pop, which had echoed throughout the massive house. I ran from the living room into the kitchen and saw the body of Isabella Bonifacio on the ground, with blood dripping from around her corpse.
The sounds of the gunshots rippled throughout the house. It was a mess.
I glanced and pushed Natalia out of the kitchen, not wanting her to see it. There was yelling between Lorenzo and my father until another gunshot went off. I heard the footsteps down the stairs and turned back to see Romeo, who was livid. He was standing over the bodies of the Bonifacio’s, both parents on the ground with blood surrounding them.
