Chapter 2 (Aliyana)


    Present-day


    The darkness can be the setting for one''s nightmare or the sign of one’s escape. There are instances


    between life and death, decisions we need to make.


    Only when we are weighing our options thinking we chose the most usible of the lot, we have no


    idea that the selections we end up making, can sometimes have drastic consequences.


    Like the people who killed my friend, Ren. They had no idea when they pulled that trigger, we were


    going to catch up to them so easily. Stupid people. The one who betrayed us had no inclination that we


    would ever find out.


    We have, well, I have. And right now, I am the one with the trump card. But showing my hand too early


    would not be wise so I bite my tongue. Waiting.


    The long skinny brush hangs by the tail end through my nimble fingers as the brown-colored tip glides


    across the roughened canvas, reminding me, how easy one small simple judgment can influence a


    vast amount of other aspects. We are the product of our choices. And most of the time we screw it up,


    royally.


    What we do, what we say, where we end up is all part of who we choose. Yes, who. Because it all


    comes down to you verse everyone else.


    Like this painting, I chose the brown thinking it was going to bring a bnce to the grey clouds, but all it


    brings is duller, faded shades of grief.


    In the not too different past, I assumed that life wasn’t a nomination of oneself but the rulings of the


    ones around me. My opinion on that changed, the day Marco Catelli walked out of my life. My ‘take’ on


    a lot of things has changed since then. Including my interpretation of the word ‘art’. Once a form of


    indulgence, now my promise of vengeance. How easily is the heart tainted by its adversary, rejection?


    There are internalndmarks since the day Marco walked out on me. Days when I feel a hollowness


    like I''m missing something so full. Yes, full, because it is all I can feel, it is all I want to feel. Fulfillment


    Only now I am full of pain and nothingness.


    I push it back, as that thick lodging in my throat reminds me of how empty I am, and how pale my


    existence has be. In the darkness of my bedroom I convince myself I’d wake up, I’d be numb, the


    pain I feel would be passing and all that matters now and mattered before would be here, in my world.


    All those people would be around, smiling at me, looking me in the eyes, and telling me that it was just


    a dream. Yes, it would be one heck of a choice to believe this is a dream, to convince myself that my


    life, myck thereof is a bad nightmare.


    But life never works that way. Life is meant to be difficult. Smooth sailing is a joke, nothing is ever


    simple, and if anyone tries to convince you differently, then I suggest you have your Glock against their


    head for spewing shit to you. Because life is hard, your battles aren’t like everyone else but don’t make


    them any less real.


    In the 5th State, it is more than hard, it is a dangerous ride just being born. Add in the extras and you


    got yourself a life fit for a viin.


    And that is a normal conversation amongst our kind. Talk about someone getting whacked, or your


    uncle Benny just dropping off the face of the earth.


    Even I will brush it off as one of those things. Because that is what the underworld is about, and we, the


    women born in this darkness take it up the ass even though we are not working ss.


    And we will not settle for anything else than our brand of fucked up. We only know one way. And even


    if you are stupid enough to want different, the men will find you and haul your ass right back where it


    came from and then you are fucked.


    Ask Rosa Marchesi, the infamous Italian girl who fell in love with a diplomat’s son who sold her out to


    her family. He chose his safety over her heart. It was a good choice, we have to choose ourselves to


    survive in the 5th State. Even a normal boy figured that out. It is a pity selling someone out is


    considered bad manners though, else he would still be alive.


    But 24-year-old Rosa is. She’s now a myth, a story without a proper face. Some say she is a ve to


    her parents, who keep her locked up in their home. Others say she is the lucky one who got it easy and


    lives in a mansion near Malibu.


    But either way, no one has seen the girl in years. Like my cousin, Rosco. My mouth tilts at the thought


    of ourst interaction just a few days ago. My ‘presumably’ dead cousin, now a biker named Knight.


    How small is the earth we im as our home?


    Squinting my eyes, I bend my neck to pay close attention to the rustic chair I’m currently painting into


    life, as the cold air seeps through my jersey. I twirl my brush, making sure I get the perfect curl around


    the chair''s back. I would need to add in some gold, yellow and ck, with a few touches of white mixed


    in to get the perfect antique look I was wanting to portray.


    My finger shakes as I use my tiny brush to get the corner end of the chair perfects to my naked eye.


    Yes, it alles down to options. Decisions, decisions. The wind blows my crouched, awkward form as


    my lips tug at how every day is a new day, making way for a fresh start. Even us, criminals, evil killers,


    the tortured ones, get that fresh start. The beginning of something new, the chance to choose


    differently.Contentt bel0ngs to N0ve/lDra/ma.O(r)g!


    It is our own fault we remain the same. We still pick that gun up, we still smile, relishing in that sickness


    we are born with for the taste of death, for the taste of ending someone''s life. Ande Sunday


    morning, like this morning at 9, we go to church.


    We are the ones who pray to god and return vigntly to mass confessing our sins and asking God if


    we repent will he forgive us, but in actual reality we are the worst of the disbelievers, we are the


    sinners, the ones who are convinced they have the authority to take a life, to y god.


    The truth is when we have that gun in our hands, we feel like we are god, we feel powerful. It is the


    reason we allow our anger to lead to where it goes. It is the excuse we tell ourselves when we beat


    another person because they didn’t fit in with our ns. And I, Aliyana Capello am a sinner just like the


    rest of them.


    I am just one of the few who acknowledge that I am better because of it. Free, because I have not


    strayed from my path, I have not craved goodness as I have craved the love of a man, the feeling of


    want.


    I have not be so weak that I have forgotten who I am and what I am meant to be. Nor have I


    forgotten the blood that runs through my veins is not just belonging to the Italian Famiglia but Bratva, a


    strong Russian syndicate, that many fear.


    I am not just a member of theirs, but I am a member of the Vasiliev n and it is time I started acting


    like one.


    For a long time, I wanted to fit in with the Famiglia, and that want blindsided me from the other part of


    my heritage.


    My mother chose to remain a member of the Bratva, and for years I thought it was to keep my sister


    safe but I realize now it was more than that. She didn’t want to abandon who she was; her identity was


    more than her marriage. Her love for herself outweighed her desire to please my father.


    A lot can happen when your eyes are open, when you can finally see, only then you understand it


    all.