A resounding crash echoed through the room as two bodies tumbled to the floor – one female, the other male. My eyes locked onto the scene unfolding before me: the mafia girl perched atop the brunette boy, her fists striking his face with a vengeance. Though part of me felt he deserved it, in that instant, my perspective shifted.
The chant of "Deymi" reverberated off the walls, an almost haunting chorus. They swiftly separated the struggling pair, the brunette's eyes ablaze with a fiery red hue. I sensed her breath laboring, as if hungering for more air, while her gaze smoldered with rage and a primal thirst. I grasped the depths of her emotions; a visceral urge to unleash violence consumed Miss Mort.
Then, my attention shifted to Vesper, and I was mildly taken aback. His face bore the evidence of the altercation: a trickle of blood from his nose, swollen split lips, scrapes marking his eyes, and telltale imprints on his neck. He wore an expression of astonishment and disbelief. It dawned on Marcelo, finally, the true potency within the mafia girl.
"I'll end you!" she snarled, her wrath fixated on the school's king. An odd fatigue crept over me, the intensity of her gaze growing more ominous by the moment.
Yet, a boy's hand suddenly covered Deymi's eyes, drawing her near. Tino's voice reached her ears, prompting an enigmatic sensation within me. Was it the pang of jealousy?
Abruptly, the brunette pulled out a black lighter from his pocket, adorned with an intricate pattern. He began manipulating it in a mesmerizing way, his gaze locked onto Vesper.
"You're drifting off," his voice rumbled. Just in the nick of time, Marlon hurried over, grabbing the brunette by the arms as he started dozing off. He fell asleep like a baby.
"What did you do to him?" the blonde shouted.
"Let the Mafia crew handle him," the dark-haired one nodded, wrapping his arm around Deymi and heading toward the exit. The rest of the Young Mafia members followed suit, exuding an air of confidence as they departed, without casting a backward glance.
"Quite the spectacle," a voice emerged from the crowd, swiftly silenced.
"Man, I'm utterly exhausted," Grace sighed, and I reassured him with a pat on the shoulder. I felt the same, overwhelmed by the torrent of information that had just engulfed us all. "Hungry?"
"Not really, let's go," I waved my hand, rising from my seat. I glanced over at Marcelo. He was gradually regaining his senses, already standing up and rubbing his head.
"Deymi nearly wiped us out on the spot," Grace chuckled.
"Hey, mafia buddy, can I get your sister's number?" a voice came from behind.
"Why don't you get lost?" Mort hissed. But this was a moment where I couldn't hold back.
"Listen, why do you need all of this? Haven't you caused enough trouble? Don't they teach you to keep your mouth shut?"
"Julian..."
"Shut up, geek. You don't understand a thing."
"Oh, now I get it. The little prince craving attention decides to continue this word war," I sighed. "Relax, you'll have plenty of time to die. And don't flatter yourself, aside from your fan club, no one else considers you a king. Let's go, Grace. I'm seriously over being in this place."
Mort nodded, and we exited the cafeteria. The ongoing feud among everyone was getting increasingly tiresome. It's as if all the teachers suddenly turned blind. Wasn't anyone being paid to address this chaotic mess?
We stepped into the library, and I began my quest for the necessary books, while Grace settled down at a table, engrossed in his phone. Out of nowhere, an image formed in my mind – Mafia striking Marcelo. Her reaction when he mentioned her mother was fierce. It pointed to her pain being connected to recollections of different mothers. When I returned to my friend, the urge to ask him surged, but I held back. Just like in the past and now, I knew this was a sensitive topic. I could only worsen things. If Mafia chose to trust me, she would open up in her own time. And it would stay strictly between us.
Twenty minutes elapsed as Grace and I sat in the library, scouring for something relevant to our project, or as my brother so eloquently put it, "anything for the brainless project he's got no clue about."
At some point, the brunette sighed in frustration and cast a glance at the silver ring his sister had given me. I was poring over the "Business Encyclopedia," occasionally stealing glances at Grace. When our eyes locked again, I burst out, "Alright, what? Why are you staring at me like that?" I slammed the book shut and reached for the next one. "You're preventing me from concentrating."
Mort appeared to hesitate; he wanted to say something.
"I'd like to talk to you about something," he started uncertainly.
"If it's bad news or relates to the recent events, you might as well spare me," I spoke slowly, diving back into the book. Annoyed, Grace yanked the book from my hands and chucked it aside.
"Hey!" I protested. Mort snapped his fingers in front of my face and nodded, further fueling my annoyance. "Have you gone insane?"
"I can't get through to you with those books," he replied, visibly irritated. "Can't you see? I want to say something."
"Then why toss books at me?" I shook my head, exasperated.
"Because you're in your own world otherwise."
"Fine, fine, what's on your mind?"
"Julian, hear me out... trying to find the right words," Mort hesitated, his voice uncertain.
"This ring is more than just a gift," Mort's words caught me off guard, and my eyebrow arched in surprise. What could possibly imbue that ring with such significance? Why was he so fixated on it?
"What are you talking about?"
"I know, it sounds a bit peculiar... but it's a marker," I almost toppled from my chair.
"What?! What on earth do you mean, a marker?" I blurted out. Grace nodded and continued.
"In our family, each of us is unique in our own way. Especially Mafia. She has her own line of rings; they produce hundreds, even thousands of them. But it's all superficial," he waved his hand dismissively. "The crucial point is, this particular ring serves as a marker she orders her victims to wear. And if she doesn't harm you within 24 hours... then you're marked for death! It's like a game within the Mafia. Do you get it?"
I gaped at the brunette in disbelief.
"But why would she do that? We seem to have a normal relationship. Besides, it's been more than 24 hours."
"That's the puzzle," Grace exclaimed. "I can't fathom why she'd engage in this. It seems the game revolves around which Mafia faction can accumulate more killings and come out on top. But considering that you... um... don't comprehend any of this."
"But how can that be?"
"You thought she's a good girl just because she saved you?" the Mafia's son sighed, a tinge of sadness in his smile.
"I... I... didn't..."
Mort fell silent, lost in thought. My mouth had gone dry. So, there she was, saving me only to potentially kill me, or worse, stab me in the back?
"Wait! There's another theory... It's a bit bizarre and somewhat absurd. I can hardly believe it myself... but it seems to fit. If not murder, then ownership," the brunette suddenly spoke. I looked at the Mafia boss's brother with a glimmer of hope. However, he remained silent, his gaze penetrating into mine.
"What is it? What does what you said mean?"
"I think she marked you as... as her possession," he finally revealed. My heart sank.
"What? What do you mean by that?"
"It seems to me that she marked you as... her own property."