First Chapter of "His Blood on my Hands(and on my living room carpet)

It wasn’t supposed to end like this. He was never supposed to know.

He was never supposed to get into this. And now he’s bleeding out on my living room floor.

It was almost a year ago when I first encountered him. I was walking around Rittenhouse Square, aimlessly wandering while eating my Mac n Cheese with my mob-appointed bodyguard of the week trailing a few yards behind me in plain clothes. I was really really into this food just so you know. That’s why I didn’t notice the man losing control of his bike until he ran directly into me, knocking me down, and causing me to lose all of my fucking Mac n cheese.

So now I’m laying on the ground, with a bike and a man on top of me, with my glorious meal scattered across me and the ground. Just kill me.

A sputtering noise begins to come from over me, “Oh my god. Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you. I’m so sorry. I just got distracted for a seco--”

The useless stuttering of the fool who’s run me over suddenly stops as Niall, my security this week, hoists the man off of me in one swift gesture, standing him back up. I rise to my feet as well, wincing at the pain in my ankle and various other joints. That’s when I get a good look at him.

Damn. If I had to choose a man to run me over with a cheap bicycle I’d choose him over almost anyone else. I mean, this man is fine.

“Let him go,” I say. Niall immediately detaches himself from the stranger. I give him a small gesture, barely noticeable, but he sees it. He hesitates for only a moment before following my command and walking away.

“Who the heck was that guy?” The man asks.

“No clue.” I lie convincingly with a shrug.

He tilts his head to the side as if pondering what just happened. His face shifts back to concern, “I really am sorry about that. Is there something I can do to make it up to you? Are you hurt?”

I look around at the food scattered around my feet, staring down at my now slightly ruined clothes and imagining the bruises starting to spread underneath them, “Well I definitely just lost all my mac n cheese.”

“Oh well, I can replace that. Sure thing.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, tattered wallet. The thing looks as if it’s a hundred years old. He opens the wallet and pulls out a dirty-looking ten-dollar bill, handing it to me. I take it lightly at my fingertips, not really wanting to touch it.

“Thanks…” I say as I place the filthy thing in my pocket. I live in a three-million-dollar house and this beautiful idiot thinks I want his filthy money.

“Yeah, that’s literally the least I could do.” He smirks with that statement and I think my uterus actually convulsed, “I ran you over with a bike.”

“Yeah, well, I have to go now,” I say. I begin walking away but a hand catches my arm. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Niall moving back toward us. I motion again for him to stay away, telling him it’s fine.

“I didn’t catch your name.”The man says.

“That’s because I didn’t throw it.” I deadpan. He grins at my statement and I’m almost certain my heart stopped a little. He releases my arm.

“I’m Aleixandrei. People call me Drei.” He says, holding out his hand for me to shake. I hesitate for a moment before grabbing it.

“I’m Quinn. People call me Harley.” I say. I’m lying. No one calls me Harley. In fact, no one ever really calls me anything but Quinn. I think my dad would kill them if they did since my name is attesting to his status, translating to “descendant of the chief”.

He smiles and nods, not knowing I’ve lied to him, “Well, see ya around, Harley.”

He releases my hand, picks up his bike, and continues on his way, choosing to walk and pull his bike this time.

I pick up the container that formerly held my food, realizing I almost left it on the ground, and walk to meet Niall. I signal that I want to go home and he heads toward the car. I sit on a bench for a few moments waiting for his text which tells me where he’ll be picking me up from. Once I get it, I walk to the car and get in, thankful to finally be going home.

It takes forever to finally reach my home in Northwest Philly.

437 W Chesnut Hill Avenue is a large lot with the most gorgeous two-and-a-half-story Georgian-style house sitting on it. It has been my home for my whole life. I said my first word in this house. I took my first steps in this house. I lost my mom in this house.

Niall pulls the car down the driveway and stops in front of the doors to the house. I get out of the car before he comes around to open the door, much to his disdain. Gosh, this guy and his rule-following. Thank god he’s getting switched out soon.

I walk up the steps and across the porch to the door, opening it for myself, again, causing much discomfort for my guard. I barely get ten steps into the foyer before a voice came calling from the top of the stairs to my left.

“Is that my darling girl?” The deep voice of my father rings through the room.

“Yes, dad,” I say with a smile, turning around to see him coming down the last few steps. The smile falters a tad when I see who’s behind him, “Oh hi, Grandpa.”

“Gregory, son, there’s a stain on the rug there. You should really get that cleaned.” That’s the attitude my grandfather has greeted me for my entire life. The smile drops off of both my and my father’s faces. My grandfather leaves quickly before either of us could say anything.

Ever since I was born, my grandfather has had a hatred for me in his heart. He never liked my mother because she was Black with no connections to anything powerful than a low-level Blood or Crip here and there. While she was alive, I barely saw my grandfather. I didn’t even really know the man until my mother’s funeral when he approached my father and --right in front of me-- suggested he put me up for adoption as soon as possible.

I mean, the man can barely even walk standing straight up due to old age and old bullet wounds but he still has time to be racist. Funny how that works.

“I’m sorry, Quinn. I thought I’d be able to get him out of the house before you got back.” My father apologizes, something he only ever does for me.

“It’s okay dad. I’m used to it. Can’t fix stupid.” I say, turning and walking away, towards the downstairs sitting room. I kneel on the floor in front of the giant portrait of my mother that hangs on the wall, over the space where her body was found. Every day I come here to talk to my mother. I tell her about my day, about my dreams, random thoughts I have.

Today, I tell her about Drei. The way he rammed me with his bike. The way I wanted Niall to rip his head off. The way I realized how gorgeous he was. I talked about the five-minute encounter for what felt like an hour. When I stood to go to my room, I found my father leaning by the entrance. Geez, for a mob boss he sure does have a lot of free time to spy on his daughter.

“You sure seem to be thinking a lot about this guy.” He says inspecting his nails.

“Well yeah, it’s the only thing that happened today. Not like I’ll ever see him again anyway.” I say, awkwardly placing my hands in my pockets.

“Well, he better not be Russian.” He says shortly.

“Dad, I seriously doubt that every random man I run into in the park is some sort of Russian operative,” I say.

My father rolls his eyes, “It’s just that after everything they’ve done to me, everything they’ve taken from me, I would think you’d be more careful who you caught crushes on.”

“Form you? Everything they’ve taken from you? They took my mother!! They killed my mother right here in this room and they didn’t even have a good reason! How dare you act like you’re the only one who lost her!” I shout, tears filling my eyes. I walk forcefully past him and out of the room. I run up the stairs to my room and slam the door shut.

That bastard. I hate it when he gets like that. One thing about having a mob boss as a dad, they are so self-centered sometimes. One second it’s like you’re their whole world and the next it’s like you’re just one of the many moons circling on the outside of it. The ten-year anniversary of my mother’s death is in less than a month and he’s still like this.

My father in particular often will get so deep into his own head and his own issues that he completely forgets that other people have problems as well. He’ll take a while but he’ll usually dig himself back out of his mind and realize what he’s done and come to apologize.

Until then I’ll just occupy myself with music. I play three instruments: flute, piano, and saxophone. The piano was my mother’s favorite. Today I suppose I will play for her.

I sit down on the bench at my piano and lightly brush my fingers over the keys, not making any sound. A few days before my mother died, I sat at this piano, fumbling over the keys as I attempted to learn a new song, her favorite song, River Flows in You by Yiruma. At the time, the song was new and I was learning to play it by ear. Now I know it by heart as if I had written it myself.

I begin playing, softly at first but then louder and louder as I began pouring all of my emotions into the song. By the time I reach the end of the song, tears are streaming down my face again and my hands are shaking as I play out the final notes. Almost like clockwork, as soon as the last note is done ringing through my room, there’s a knock at the door.

“Quinn? Can I come in?” My father’s voice calls. I roughly wipe the tears off of my face and compose myself a little, but not too much before answering.

“Yeah. Come in.” I call back. The door opens and he enters. He walks across the bench and sits at the piano next to me. He takes my hand.

“Quinn I’m so sorry.” He says. So predictable.

“I know, dad.” I sigh. He is silent for a while as if he’s not sure if he’s forgiven or if I’m actually very angry.

“If you really like this Drew boy, I supposed I could have Conor look for him.” My father says. I laugh. Conor is the family PI, tasked with finding people or finding out their secrets. He’d give the CIA a run for their money for sure. He could probably find somebody with just a strand of their hair for information.

“His name is Drei, dad. And no, I don’t need Conor’s help. It’s not that big a deal. We’ll probably never see each other again and that’s just fine with me.” I assure him. I glance at him to find him with a light smile on his face before he turns back to the keys. He starts absentmindedly playing scales.

“I hadn’t heard you play in a while.” He says softly. Back when my mother was alive, we would all play the piano together as a family, learning songs together, composing. We were a family of virtuosos, music geniuses. It was a family activity, any time my father was free, we would all be in the music room playing various instruments.

If we were at home, the house would be lit up with music. Nowadays it is often completely silent. I moved all of my instruments to my room, not being able to play in the music room anymore. Too much of her there. My dad and I both busied ourselves with work and school, putting music in the background.

“I’ve been busy getting ready for school,” I answer after a moment of silence. He nods slightly.

“You start back tomorrow don’t you?” He asks. I nod in response.

“Yup. SO exciting.” I say. I’m entering my junior year in college. I fought my father for my entire life over what my college major would be. He wanted me to major in business and economics, of course. I wanted to major in history. I won the fight of course, but only because I played dirty, something I know he’s proud of me for. It’s what he would’ve done and probably did to his father many times. I did what I had to study what I love.

I love my father, and I love my family. I would do just about anything for them. But I would rather die than study business and economics. I couldn't give two shits about the damn economy and running the business. That’s what my cousin is for. My father doesn’t know this, but I have no plans of taking over as his successor. When he passes the baton o me, I plan to give it to Conor. He’s always wanted the power, he’s done all the work, and he deserves it. He’d do a better job of leading the family than I would.

Of course, I’ll always be here to help him, and the rest of the family, but I want to travel the world for other reasons than world domination.

“I don’t know why I argued so much with you over your major. No matter what you study, you’ll lead this family well. You’ve grown into an amazingly strong young woman,” My father says, tightly clutching my hand.

“Thanks, Dad,” I respond, smiling tightly. He gives my hand one last pat before getting up and heading out of the room.

“Dinner will be ready soon.” He says before leaving my room and closing the door behind him.

I breathe out a sigh of relief. Too often, his apologies turn into another argument, but today was different. He seemed solemn in a way. I wonder briefly what exactly transpired between him and my grandfather earlier today.