Mafia's Lost Princess

Elena.  

 

"Dev'essere pazzo…” He spat, calling the attention of the closest chef beside me.

 

I kept my head down as the restaurant manager yelled at the top of his voice. The last time I had looked at him, as he spoke, his spittle that went flying out from his mouth ended up washing my face.

 

"Once beaten, twice shy" was something I was quite accustomed to. I knew that my manager would take silence as a sign of submission. Men like him preferred ego play rather than being right. I said nothing, and he continued to fire rapid Italian at me.

 

Of course, I had done nothing wrong, but the man just liked to make a mountain out of a molehill. Couple with my exhaustion from my classes earlier in the day, I was in no mood to argue.

 

“Perché stai intralciando tutti? Sei così disoccupato? Perché devi starsene lì in giro sembrando un pomodoro! Sì, un grande idiota!”

 

I was apparently an idiot and a tomato according to him.  

 

The large kitchen bustled behind me, but some of the kitchen staff had chosen to stay in instead of work.

It's them you should yell at, not me, I thought. I was constantly picked upon by this man.

 

Giuseppe had been nothing more than a thorn in my flesh since I started working at the restaurant. While I thought it was because I was simply new, the treatment had lasted over six months now, and there were yet more new staff.

 

He pointed in front of me and finally dismissed me. I deepened the bow and scurried over to the table I was serving.

 

“You good?” I heard a voice behind me. It was the chef who jumped when Guiseppe was yelling.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“There's a customer outside. Why don't you leave the dishes…I'll handle them.” He said with a smile.

 

I pushed open the door connecting the kitchen from the main dining area to find that the customers had gone but had been replaced by a single man.

 

His long muscular legs were crossed and clad in beach trousers. He wore a white shirt that was rolled up to his sleeves to expose his tattoos.

 

On his neck was a necklace of something that looked like an anchor, but I wasn't sure as I wasn't close enough. His face was blocked by the magazine he was reading, but his long, veiny fingers were quite eye-catching for me.

 

"Is there something I can get you, sir?" I asked in English. The mysterious man put down his magazine and turned bright hazel eyes to look at me.

 

Holy virgin.

 

His gaze was burning, and the hazel of his eyes were almost a deep amber color. He had a straight nose, full lips, and a jaw sharp enough to cut through butter. He was quite a handsome man.

 

I shook my head to clear my thoughts and asked again. "Is there something I can get you, sir?" The man smiled just a bit, with the smile not quite reaching his eyes.

 

"Coffee," he answered in a deep voice that sent shivers down my spine. Feeling the need to leave his presence, I quickly skirted away with eyes wide open, and picked up the job of hot coffee and went back to his table. Completely avoiding his gaze, I kept my eyes focused on the coffee in front of me. The last thing I wanted was to spill coffee over his expensive-looking brown leather shoes and get scolded again by my manager. It was quite rare for me to get scolded twice a day, but a regular daily scolding was normal.

Just as I was about to pour his cup, I heard him mumble something. "I'm sorry, what?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Damon. That's my name. What's yours?" he asked, with a slight smile tugging at his lips.

Those lips… 

"I'm sorry, what?" I asked again, all of a sudden feeling very repetitive. I shook my head at my own actions. This was very unlike me. Men were secondary in my life at the moment, so I couldn't explain why I felt this way. Sensing my discomfort, the stranger smiled. "Elena." I answered.

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, bringing himself dangerously close to me. I swallowed loudly and watched as his eyes moved over my neck.

Those eyes… 

Distracted and trying to regain my composure, I turned back to the coffee jug I held and hugged it to my chest as though it would shield me from his gaze. "Pretty name," he said. "Did your mother give it to you?"

I froze at the sound of the word "mother." I barely knew the woman, but it felt strange talking about myself with someone I had just met. I only knew my mother in the last moments of my life and even struggled to remember my face.

Feeling clueless, I nodded and plastered a fake smile on my face. The man, called Damon, released a low hum that sounded like a purr of a large cat.

But he was a beast. He seemed like a beast ready to pounce on me at any given moment. I looked up from the coffee I was holding and focused my eyes on his nose, afraid to meet his gaze.

"W-Will that be all?" I stammered. His lips curved into a slow and sensual smile that promised strange things and sweaty nights. I bluId pink.

He shook his head. "When I need you, I'll call you. I would love to likely be getting another cup of coffee, so please stick around," he said.

I all but ran back to the kitchen once he nodded at me to leave. On shaky legs, I leaned against the cold kitchen counter where the chefs kneaded bread.

I didn't know why I felt that way but the man made me extremely nervous and self-conscious . Not wanting Giuseppe to find me idle, I quickly glanced around to see if Giuseppe was close to me. He wasn't, making it incredibly lucky for me.

I took in a couple more breaths before straightening myself away from the counter. my legs were still shaking, and most of all, my underwear was ruined.

The mere fact that he looked deep into my eyes and smiled the way he did was more than enough to release the torrents between my legs.

I was wet and bothered. I huffed and picked up the jug of coffee beside me. As soon as I set it down at its rightful position, I looked back to find Damon on the phone.

His eyebrows were drawn together, and he drummed his fingers rapidly on the table. Whatever that was, it looked urgent because he stood up, dropped a couple of Iets of money, and walked off quickly.

I let out a breath that I didn't know I was holding. In a way, I was glad that he was gone. He confused me and made me feel in a way that I had never felt before.

I hoped that I wouldn't encounter him again. Encounters such as the one I just had were like Christmas or even worse, a lunar eclipse. Stuff like that only happened once in a lifetime.

Elena.

Evenings were my favorite time. I would finish work or school and happily skip to the dark streets of Rome with one destination in mind.

Aside from the tourists, which offered much entertainment, it was a favorite place to be after a tedious day at work.

I cut through the crowded streets using alleys and backways, easily navigating the darkness as though I were familiar. And I was familiar with it.

I knew the path like the back of my hand and wasn't afraid to tread there even at night. My destination was the arena. The arena served as my escape from reality.

Sandwiched between school and work, I was constantly torn apart by responsibilities. Not forgetting Pablo's consistent calls, I was truly stumped and needed some respite.

The building was a warehouse. It wasn't dilapidated and old, but it was refurbished. I heard that some rich mafia man found it amusing to watch people fight without the strict rules of MMA.

The arena, however, was a cheap dump littered with adrenaline junkies like myself. I only needed a couple of coins to make my way inside, and sometimes I would get in for free.

Crowded nights like tonight were one of those nights. I smiled at the large doorman who served as both a bouncer and a collector. Fred wasn't Italian, but he had mostly acclimatized into society.

Fred nodded his head at me and returned my smile with a wink. He blocked the people who were crowded in front of him and made way just for me. With a giggle, I patted his hand and walked right in.

The warehouse could normally fit a thousand people standing side by side, including the circular ring. But that was only on slow nights. On nights such as this, at least 5,000 people were crammed in the small space making the atmosphere hot and humid.

Just above the ring was a hanging light that illuminated the caged ring below. There were no seats. People stood, and some brought tables so they could stand and watch the fight from a farther and higher distance.

The arena had high ceilings that accommodated a gallery on the second floor. More people stood there, but they were fewer. They were VIPs. The gallery housed different cubicles and chairs that served as perfect viewing spots for those who could afford it.

I never dreamed of staying there. I had a spot that I liked to stand surrounded by people I had come to know.

There was Paul, Edmond, and Julian. The three would always keep my spot for me. Paul waved me over as soon as he spotted me. With an enthusiastic wave in response, I elbowed my way through the sweaty crowd.

The fight hadn't even started, but the crowd was already hailing in anticipation of the fight.

Apparently, some new guy was coming in from outside to challenge one of the best fighters the arena had ever seen.

Paul grabbed my hand and pulled me up to the table they had secured. As I stood there, I felt the worries of the day melt away and dissolve into the rhythmic chant of the crowd for the one they called ‘the Iron Fist.’

The arena was not a pretty place. In fact, no ladies should be found in such an establishment.

The place smelled like urine, sweat, blood, and money. So in all ramifications, I shouldn't be found in such a place. But it was the only place I felt truly alive. It was the only place I felt I could be myself.

So the announcer entered the ring. "Ladies and gentlemen! Let's jump right into it. In the red corner, we have one of our best." The hall was silent as they waited for the introduction of the world-known Iron Fist.

"He's strong, he's fast, he is heavy with the fists, ladies and gentlemen, benefactors, and others, I present to you Iron Fist!" The crowd went wild with cheers and chants.

I smiled as I burned the memory and the sound into my mind. The hall fell silent again as soon as the announcer raised his left hand, signifying silence.

"On the blue side is a newcomer. A desperado if you must. He's confident that he can take on one of the best in the business." The statement warranted a few laughs from people in the gallery.

I looked up to find them smiling and snickering. Perhaps they knew it would be a beatdown, but I chose to keep my eyes open.

"Ladies and gentlemen, he is unknown, he has no name. So let us call him the Tattooed Maniac." This one got more laughs from people as the announcer smiled at his own hubris.

The arena fell silent. Just as the fighter came out, I couldn't help but widen my eyes. It's not like he was small. He was quite tall and with well-defined muscles, he looked formidable.

The name the announcer gave him made me think he was covered in tattoos from head to toe. But I was wrong. He had some, but not enough to cover his skin.

He looked familiar, and since I was quite close to the ring, I could see what made him so familiar – the necklace he wore.

Normally jewelry wasn't allowed in the ring, but whoever he was, they allowed it anyway. It was the man from the restaurant. Damon, I remembered, was his name.

I looked at him closely, my eyes scrutinizing every inch of his body. His thighs didn't look merely muscled, but they seemed to have power in them for a few explosive movements. His biceps strained as he lifted his fists in a ready stance.

His stance was strange. It wasn't the typical boxing stance; it reminded me of Thai boxing.

His hands were closer to his ears, and his head was ducted down in between his elbows, giving him a lesser field of vision. But it was a stance that I had seen in action all too well. I knew that Damon would win even before he landed the first punch.

I quickly raised my hands as the man yelling, "Place your bets," came around me. I dropped €20, my last cash, much to the protests of my friends.

"I bet on the Tattooed Maniac," I said, earning a startled look from the man himself. He shook his head and wrote me a tally. I quickly moved my eyes back to the fight that hadn't even started.

As soon as the referee dropped his white handkerchief, the two men collided. It was quicker than I thought. But the Iron Fist swung with a wide punch that would have incapacitated his previous opponents. But I knew I placed my bet on the right fighter.

Damon instantly dodged and returned with an uppercut to the Iron Fist's chin. Dazed, the Iron Fist shook his head and tried to retaliate with another wide punch.

The swing was slow, and Damon saw it. He didn't duck, but took a step backward, allowing the Iron Fist to spin under the weight and power of his own fists.

As soon as the Iron Fist stopped spinning, Damon punched him again with an uppercut. This one knocked him out. The fight was over in less than a minute.

The crowd didn't cheer; they just stood silent. But I smiled and fist-bumped into the air, careful not to disturb the silence. I looked back at the ring to find Damon looking straight at me. He turned his head to one side and let out a little smile. He winked and then turned away.

Just what was that? I asked myself, feeling a rush of heat rise to my cheeks and another between my thighs.