Mila: The Godfather (Unholy Trinity Book 7)
Mila: The Godfather: Part 2 – Chapter 66

MILA

“You are all of my best days.” — R

At times, when I’m deep in my thoughts, I tend to tune out the world. I don’t notice when I’m being called by my name. That’s what happened next. 

Too busy reading my favorite book, I didn’t notice my father standing behind me, calling my name. Not until it was too late. 

“Mila.” A dark voice barks from behind me. I startle and drop my glass of milk on the floor. A feeling of dread takes over me when I realize what I just did. What father hates more than being ignored is messes, and I just made one on his squeaky-clean floors. 

Before I have any chance to defend myself, I feel hands slam into my chest, and I fly back, the wind knocked out of me as I land on my behind.

Pain shoots through my tailbone, and I suck in a breath, déjà vu washing over me.

“What have I told you about ignoring me?” My father barks, making me jump. I don’t like people who yell. They’re mean and have nothing nice to say in my experience. “Fuck, look at you. Even dogs respond to their name.” He says in disgust, followed by a mean laugh.

It sounded cruel. The dark sound burrowing through my stomach like a screw.

I push to my feet, feeling embarrassed and sad. How can a father take so much pleasure in hurting and terrorizing their child? 

I’m not perfect. I know that, but it hurts. I feel. I’m human, even if he tries not to see me that way. The worst part is that he never comes to my room. There’s nothing here for him. The only reason he’s here is because he’s in the mood to remind me of my place in his life. 

He loves to humiliate me. It makes him feel better to blame his failures on me and my sisters. 

“I did not mean to space—” he slaps his hand across my face. A whimper escapes me, my cheek bursting into flames. He’s always yelled ugly names, smacked me around, but he has never slapped my face until now. 

“Don’t talk back.” He gets in my face. His eyes are harsh, and his mouth twists in a cruel smile. My father is a handsome man. He reminds me of my older sister Arianna, but where Arianna has a kind heart even as cold as it is, my father’s heart is black. 

Tears of embarrassment gather in my eyes, and I try my best to hold them back. I drop my head, knowing that nothing I say will ever appease him or make him look at me as his daughter instead of a nuisance. 

“What do you say, child?” Child. Never Mila. Another attempt to dehumanize me. 

Knowing by heart what will follow if I don’t give him what he wants, I answer. “I’m sorry, father,” I whisper with my head down. He hates my eyes. He hates looking at me, but especially my eyes. I can’t seem to maintain eye contact for long, and that makes him angry. He says it makes me weak and it makes people uncomfortable, so I learned to hide my flaws, but sometimes I slip up. Like today. 

“Clean this mess up.” He kicks the glass on the floor, making more of a mess before he leaves the room. 

I wait for the door to click shut behind him, and only then do I dare let the tears fall. 

Going into the bathroom, I grab a towel to clean the puddle of milk on the floor. I’m not risking going downstairs to look for a mop and running into him again. This will have to do. 

Dropping to my knees, I wipe the floor until there’s no stain on it. Once I’m sure it’s clean, I rise and make my way to the window with the dirty towel in hand. 

Lifting my hand to my chest, I tap it three times, stop, and do it again, trying to ease the pain there. God does it hurt.

“Why?” I whisper to the dark, looking out my window. The sky is dark, but the stars are shining so brightly. “Why was I born this way?” I cry out, trying to hold in the sob, not wanting anyone to hear. Not wanting to cause another mess. 

Wiping my tears, I don’t look away from the window and start to imagine all the things I would do if I ever got out of this house. I hold onto those dreams and focus on only that until my chest doesn’t ache.

Until the tears dry. 

But deep down, I know there’s no leaving this house of horrors.

This is not a fairytale. 

No one will save us. 

No one.

When I was younger, I took up drawing and painting as a hobby because it offered me an escape. It also helped me understand human emotions better by observing their behaviors and later translating them into art. It was just something I did to keep myself from constantly thinking of our living situation inside the Parisi home. Later, I realized how much I truly loved drawing and painting. It has become so much more than what it originally was. Now, drawing and painting help me communicate with people better. Plus, it increases my emotional intelligence. Which is always good.

Humming my current favorite country song, I pick up the brown acrylic paint and empty what’s left of it onto the clean palette.

I smile because I finally found the perfect shade. An exact match for what I want.

Mixing the brown paint with a small amount of yellow, I look up at the wall that used to be plain white a few days ago and now is filled with color and love.

For him.

Yesterday, I heard Cianne mention that Riagan’s birthday is coming up and a thought popped up. One that had me giddy and nervous at the same time.

It is the perfect time to give him something.

Something from the heart.

I asked Cianne to help me with the surprise and asked if he could get me the supplies I needed for the project I am planning but he just smiled at me and said to follow him. I did and when he took me to the left wing of the mansion he showed me the studio Riagan added just for me.

At first, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It looked just like one of those professional studios I see popping up on social media, but the difference is that mine has a homier vibe with bright colors and funky furniture.

I almost fainted in excitement.

My heart almost burst when I saw everything he had gotten for me.

All the materials and equipment he purchased. It’s more than I will ever need. And the beautiful room is decorated with colors I love.

It made me so happy.

Not the material things, but that he thought of me.

He remembers my likes and dislikes. He always does.

I showed him that night just how grateful I was for his kindness and thoughtfulness.

I showed him in many ways.

Heat reaches my cheeks when I think back to the things he did to me.

The things I did to him.

I never would’ve thought, not even in my wildest dreams, that I would feel so comfortable being naked and sharing germs with someone else, but I am, and I like it. I like it a lot.

Picking up the small brush, I continue painting the wall where I left it yesterday. It’s coming along beautifully, and I am very excited to see what he thinks of it when he sees it. He has given me so much, and I know this is not a lot, but it’s a gift from my heart.

And thanks to Cianne, I’ve managed to keep Riagan away from this part of the mansion. Every morning when Riagan leaves to deal with his men or his other businesses, Cianne helps me uncover the wall, and in the evening, he also helps me cover it so no one will spoil the surprise. No one knows, not even his house staff.

Cianne has made sure of that, which I’m grateful for. Just as I’m grateful for his company. He’s in charge of looking out for me while Riagan is away and he treats me like a person and not a job. We talk, well he does most of the talking, but I listen to him and enjoy his tales and funny remarks, even when I don’t understand half the jokes he tells me, but that doesn’t bother him. When I don’t give him the reaction he wants, he explains.

We’ve been laughing all afternoon as he shares tales of his time working as Riagan’s clan chief, but he stepped out for a second to take Bruno to the patio to do his business. He should be back any minute now. Cianne won’t admit it, but he’s enamored with the tiny pup. He’s always complaining about Bruno chewing on his stuff but he will be the first one to come home with a brand-new chew toy or a treat for the puppy. He doesn’t fool me. I’ve also caught him scratching the dog when he thinks no one is looking.

I’m so deep in my head that I don’t realize until it’s too late that someone called my name. My mind is barely able to process what happens next, even though I’ve been through it many times in the past.

I zoned out, and someone got angry.

“Mrs. O’ Sullivan.” Someone snaps at me, then throws a tray of food next to the floor, startling me and snapping me out of my own little bubble. I also don’t miss how he called me retarded under his breath.

I hurriedly pick up my cap and put it on my head, trying to hide from the scrutinizing gaze of the man towering above me. The brim of the hat hides my eyes, which I prefer. I’ve been told my gaze is weird because I don’t like to look people in the eye when I talk. Some people get freaked out. It has happened before.

At this moment, I wish the ground would open up and swallow me. It’d be better than facing this situation.

I hate confrontations. I don’t react well to them.

I tend to freeze, which only makes them angrier.

“The fuck is going on here, Mitch?” A growl comes from somewhere near, but I pay no mind to the voices. Instead, I focus on the paint I dropped on the clean floor. Oh, no. I made a huge mess. It takes me back to when I was younger, and my father would yell and punish me for making messes with my crayons or liquid paint. “Get the fuck out of here. He’ll deal with you later.”

“Sir, I—” The man, who threw the tray of food and called me a name I rather not repeat, tries to argue, but he gets cut off by the newcomer. “Save it. Get the fuck out before I deal with you myself. Trust me, you don’t want that, boy.”

Twinkle, Twinkle, little star…

I sing, trying to drown out the loud shouts. Riagan is not here. He can’t save me.

Snap out of it, Mila. The little voice in my head orders, but I can’t make myself move. I’m frozen.

“I’m touching you, darling girl.” The familiar voice says before the cap is taken off my head. I instantly shrink into myself and whimper. “It’s okay. It’s just me. I won’t hurt you.”

It takes me a few minutes to calm my breath and find the courage to look up at the person kneeling next to me. A person with hollowed eyes and sunken cheeks.

Kind eyes that look identical to the ones I love so much.

Cathan.

Riagan’s father.

Hurt spirals through me. I’ve been called names hundreds of times before, but this one hurt more than normal. Riagan’s employee called me that, and if he thinks I’m retarded, maybe deep down, Riagan thinks that as well?

Does Cathan?

I can’t help but feel ashamed.

Ashamed and embarrassed that he witnessed someone calling me such an ugly word.

Ashamed that he saw me just lie down and take it.

Does he think I am weak?

Does he think I am not the right choice for his son?

Feeling rough hands on my face, Cathan takes my chin and forces me to look at him. I try to look away, but he doesn’t allow me to. He reaches forward and wipes away a tear I didn’t know had fallen. I try focusing on the sparkly diamond earring on his left earlobe, too ashamed to force myself to stare into his eyes.

“You’re okay, and that won’t be happening again. You have my world, sweet girl.” He whispers, trying to comfort me, and I allow him. I feel myself inching closer to him, not minding his closeness at all. There’s something about Riagan’s father that, even though he looks scary, he also transmits warmth and serenity.

Just like his son.

I think about his promise, but I don’t have the courage to say ask how he can be sure it won’t happen again. People will always look at me and think of me differently just because I don’t act like they expect me to or think the way they do. “Please don’t tell him…” I hiccup, almost begging his father.

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that, honey.”

I don’t need to raise my head to know it is indeed too late.

Riagan

Looking at the photo Kelly sent me of Mila sitting on the floor with paint in her curls and face makes me smile. Fucking gorgeous, even covered in all that shit.

I’m saving the photo as my screensaver when a new text message pops up.

Conor: Got a lead on the mercenary who accepted your wife’s contract. Call me.

I read Conor’s message, then get ready to call him back when I hear the distant sound of my father comforting a weeping Mila.

My heart sinks, and I start to move in the direction their voices are coming from. When I reach them, I notice my father on his knees, hugging Mila close to him. On a normal day, the sight of them together would soften me, but not when she has tears in her eyes and food on the floor and all over her. The look of anger on my old man’s face tells me shit went down while I wasn’t here to protect her. Shit that I won’t like, I’m sure.

I’m too fucking pissed and worried to notice the surprise on the wall she’s been hiding for a week now. All I can focus on are those tears in her eyes.

Someone will die for that.

I should have known something was wrong when I didn’t find her next to the main entrance, waiting for me like she does every day to greet me as soon as I come home.

“What’s wrong?” I bark, directing it at my father. When he says nothing and just hugs her trembling figure closer, I try to cool the raging anger bubbling inside of me that promises bad things to whoever hurt my woman in my home. In her space. Fuck. To my girl, I say. “Who?”

“It-it’s not” Her stuttering only pisses me off more. She only stutters when she’s afraid. Afraid or hurt. Then she does something that hurts me just as much as her tears do.

She bows her head as if she’s ashamed.

Bullshit.

The one who needs to be ashamed is the motherfucker who thought to hurt her in my home, thinking I wouldn’t find out. A bold move, and a stupid one, too.

 I force myself to stay rooted in place, not wanting the ugly I’m about to unleash on whoever was behind this to touch her. Looking at my father, who looks both tired and angry, I ask. “Who?”

“Mitch.”

That’s all I need.

As hard as it is, I turn and leave my girl clinging to my father with tears still in her eyes and calling out my name, confused and worried, while I go in search of Scotty Flynn’s youngest son.

I should’ve taken out that entire fucking family long ago, but out of respect for the clan and their years of loyalty, I let them carry on even when I took out his father for being an insolent shady cunt but not anymore.

Now, I have the perfect excuse to end them.

What does it matter if they’re loyal when they don’t respect me? If they don’t know their place?

This was the last straw.

I don’t take kindly to betrayal, and it’s obvious now that there’s a traitor in my clan and in this home.

It’s time to flush him or her out.

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