DARK SAINT
how the little girl became a woman
The little girlâs wild, dark hair streams out behind her as she runs through the grass, squealing before she remembers that her father doesnât like it when sheâs too loud. Smacking her lips shut, she erupts in giggles as her mother reaches down and scoops her up.
âWhatâs so funny, gioia?â Her mother murmurs, speaking in soft, elegant tones as always.
âI put a worm on Carloâs head,â the little girl admits in a near whisper. She twists, glancing back at her brother. His dark, glossy hair reflects the sun as he frowns at the small worm now lying in the grass.
The older womanâs face pales even as she gives her daughter a smile, smoothing back some of her unruly locks. âYou must not mess with Carlo. Remember why?â
The little girl squirms at the gentle admonishment. âBecause father will get mad.â
Her mother nods, pressing a kiss to the girlâs temple.
âMama, why is Carloâs hair like that?â Jealousy creeps into the little girlâs tone. Sheâs always noticed that her brotherâs hair is different than hers; hers doesnât shine and shimmer in the sun like his does. Hers is duller, darker, and untamedâalways a mess no matter what her mother doesâwhile Carloâs is pin straight.
Her mother sighs, shifting the little girl in her arms as she begins walking back to the house. Play time is over; father wants her back inside. Carlo gets to play outside for a little longer, since heâs older.
âBecause you two are different people, Nina.â
The little girl looks up at her mother. âHow different, Mama?â The idea makes her sad. She wants to be just like her brother. Maybe then they can be friends. Best friends, even.
But Angelina Genovese isnât looking at her daughter. Her gaze is fixed ahead, on the house. The little girl turns to see her father standing at the doorway, bulky arms crossed in front of his chest. He looks angry. He always doesâespecially when heâs workingâbut it seems to radiate from him now, turning the air around them sour.
He jerks his head, gesturing for the woman to follow him, barking out a gruff âbring the childâ when she tries to set the little girl down.
âLuciano, pleaseââ
âDonât make me fucking repeat myself.â
Trembling, the woman follows him inside. The little girl is quiet, sensing that something is very, very off. She can feel every one of her motherâs trembles, and it fills her with fear. She hugs her little arms around her motherâs neck, wanting to make her feel better.
âLuciââ
âAngelina, I swear to you, keep your fucking mouth shut or weâll do this right here. I canât fucking listen to your voice right now. Did you think I wouldnât fucking find out?â
âPlease, sheâs not a part of thisââ
âFive years. Five fucking years. She is a part of this!â The little girl jumps as her fatherâs voice becomes a booming roar. âSheâs the biggest part of this. That child is what you have to show for the act you committed against me, your husband. I hope she was fucking worth it. You fucked everything up for us. Know that, Angelina. What happens next, you brought on yourself.â
They come to a stop in front of a room at the very back of the house. Her mother closes her eyes, tears dropping down her white cheeks.
The second the door clicks shut behind them, the little girl notices three other men standing along the wall, men she knows. They work with her father, so they come around the house often, and she doesnât like them. They're wrong. The way they move, how they talk. The way they look at her. Wrong. She whimpers, wanting to go back outside. Just wanting to leave this room.
âYou know, I think I always knew,â her father barks out a sharp laugh. âItâs funny, LinaâI never did feel like she was mine. I never felt for her what I feel for Carlo. Now, that boy, he is my blood. He will grow up with everything he needs. Your daughter? Well. I havenât decided how sheâs going to grow up. But I think itâs going to start with her watching.â
Her mother sobs as he turns, his lips pulled into the shape of a smile. He never really looks like heâs smiling, even when he is. It reminds the little girl of the clay she plays with whenever her mother lets her. She loves art. Making things. She makes little people with clay and sticks big, happy smiles on themâbut they look weird. The smiles are fake, deformed, unnatural looking no matter how hard she tries to make them look real.
Sometimes, when her father is yelling, she imagines heâs just a clay man. Scary and evil looking, but unable to cause pain. Because clay people canât hurt people.
Her motherâs grip on her is iron tight as one of the men starts approaching them.
âPlease, Luciano, please,â sheâs sobbing, begging. âPlease donât do this! Take her away, donât make her watch this, please.â
But the man continues to advance, rearing back and delivering a decisive punch to the womanâs cheek. She stumbles back, keeping a tight hold on her daughter. Her daughter who has lost the battle to stay calm and is crying for her mother. Wanting her father to leave. Just leave. Along with the rest of the men.
Men hurt. All they do is hurt.
Luciano Genovese doesnât leave.
âDo you think sheâll remember, Angelina? Do you think it will haunt her?â He slides in front of the man and pulls out a knife, still talking. âI hope she does. I hope every time she sees me, she remembers that she wonât be anything thanks to her mother.â
Lip bleeding, her mother whispers âListen to me. Focus on me. Not him. I love you, gioia. My joy.â And all other voices fade out as the little girl listens to her mother, latches onto her so tightly her fingers and arms and heart hurt. Her father still has that clay smile as he comes closer, fingers tensing around the blade.
Gioia. My joy.
Theyâre the last words her mother will ever speak to her.
You've just read the prologue of my novel, Dark Saint! It's a full length (150k+ word) dark mafia romance that I've finished writing and am currently posting to Wattpad. If you liked it, please read it here! I would so appreciate it.
About the Creator
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The thing you are most afraid to writeâ
Write that.
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