Mafia sat on her sofá in the tiny apartment she paid rent for. She was looking threw her mail, when a larger package caught her attention. It was a letter attached to a box. She pulled her red hair into a ponytail, and opened the envelope. The composição literária was not English, it was Russian. It read:
I know it has been quite a long time since our last encounter. And I said my regards that this is the only way i may be able t o contact you. I truly wish I could see you back here, with us, where you belong in Mother Russia, as the Americans say. But since I am fully aware or your predicament regarding your return, I believe I have not been using the right motivation. If you look to the pictures I have put in the envelope, I believe you may recognize a few things. enjoy my gifts.
With my Sincere Apologies, Malefik.
Mafia's lips curled into a snarl, as she slipped out the pictures. Her gold eyes changing to red, and widening as she examined them. She dropped the pictures, and pulled open the box. Mafia peeked in, and dropped in immediately, throwing herself from it, across the floor, and crying. "Talia! NATALIA! THEY KILLED NATALIA!"
The pictures depicted a bruised, bloody, and dead Natalia. Marko.
Natalia Marko, her old friend that had helped get out of Russia when she was younger. She had tattooed a snake and a tiger on her wrist, their symbols. Natalia was her best friend, even though she was older por eight years, it hadn't mattered then, and it certainly didn't have to matter now. But it did
But Mafia knew Natalia was dead. The only thing she could have used, the tattoo on her friends wrist, to know for sure, was sitting in that box.
Mafia cried bitterly into her knees, that were pulled up to her chest, whispering her friend's name over and over again. She wailed in despair, crying out in Russian and English mixed together. She laid there for hours, looking at the pictures of her friend, blurred por tears. "Talia...Talia." She pulled on her camisa to show her matching tattoo on her hip.
It reached the night por the time Mafia had gained enough self control to wander to her phone, and dialed. The phone was answered por a female, holding thick Russian accent.
Mafia sighed, and growled, "Malefik cannot make me go to him, but I can make him come to me." The women barely got a word out as Mafia continued, "He won't be to happy that someone else killed his prime target." And she hung up.
Mafia took a deep breath, and made some mais phone calls, all spoken in Russian except for one sentence, "Cadmus Allendral has been Murdered."
Later that night, Mafia grabbed her backpack, and wandered around her apartment, picking up little things. A plush animal, a few books that had sentimental value. All her jewelry. She grabbed her handful of clothes, and a hoodie. She let the hoodie on the couch. And walked over to the kitchen. She stopped at the drawer where all her weapons were hidden. She pulled out a sword. And taking her hair, her luscious red hair, tears slipping on her cheeks. She put off her hair. It fell to the floor like surreal pools of blood. She sobbed as she looked at her reflection in the blade.
She pulled on her combat boots, hiding all her weapons on her body, in her shirt, bra, pants, shoes, belt, pockets. She pulled the hoodie on her nails painted red, matching lips. She pulled out a gasoline jug and began to pour it around the apartment.
Mafia stopped at the door, and pulled a match from her pocket. Mafia lit it against her skin, and stared at the flame as it flickered there. "Mafia is dead." she whispered and dropped the match, and it fell into the puddle of gas.
She walked out and across the rua before the alarms went off, and she looked back. Watching the place burn. a blast went off from the grenade she left behind. She could feel the blast like wind against her skin and ear.
And then she turned, head down, eyes glimmering, hidden por the hoodie. And whispered again, "Mafia is dead."