The Mafias Twisted Obsession

Eight-Year-Old Kaiza;

"Discipline is the path to mastery."

That's what Father always says. I don't fully get it yet. I mean, I'm only eight. But I have seven tutors teaching me different things, so maybe I'm supposed to understand more than most kids my age.

Father is strict. Everything he does is about control. He talks about discipline like it's a religion-something you follow no matter what. He's cold with Mother, but I think that's just how he is. He believes power is everything.

"Speak only when needed," he tells me, his voice deep and sharp. "Be fierce, always. Control is power."

His lessons aren't just about learning-they're about winning. He doesn't just want me to survive in this world; he wants me to own it. To make people listen when I speak. To make them afraid. I started handling a gun just two month ago and I practice every day how to shoot. Sometimes I go hunting with father too because he says it enhances my way of thinking when I have to catch my preys. I shot a rabbit once and wanted to cry when I saw it got hurt but I got spanked by father for showing weakness.

Mistakes aren't allowed. If I get something wrong, there's always a punishment. Sometimes a slap, sometimes no dinner. The bruises on my arms and legs stay hidden under my clothes. No one can know what happens at home.

Outside, we play the perfect family. At events, Father smiles and shakes hands, acting like he's not the same man who punishes me for slipping up. He puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezing just hard enough to remind me-"Don't mess this up."

I watch him, study him. How he moves, how he controls a room. I copy everything because one day, I'll take over the family business. I have to be ready. I have to be ready because father wants nothing less than perfect.

Tonight, we're at a huge estate in Florence. It's fancy-big marble floors, endless vineyards outside. I stand near the window, pretending to listen while men praise Father and their wives smile politely. That's when I see her.

A girl, maybe a little younger than me. Dark chestnut hair, freckles. She looks out of place, her eyes distant like she doesn't want to be here. I know that feeling. I've felt it at different occasions and even now i feel it. Boredom and eveything in between, i was tired of the facade.

Then, she slips out of the room. The girl and without thinking, I follow.

She moves through a side door into the gardens, and I keep up, dodging past adults too busy talking to notice me. The garden is massive-hedges trimmed into silly shapes, roses everywhere, making the air thick with their annoying sweet scent but i like that it's very quiet and no adult was here.

She stops by a fountain, staring at the water like she wanted to wish upon it with a coin. I hesitate, then step closer.

"Hi," I say. "I'm Kaiza. Are you okay?"

She looks up, eyes flickering with surprise before settling into something calmer. "I'm Coraline," she says softly. "I just needed air. It's too crowded inside."

"Yeah," I nod. "It is. It's quieter out here." I say and listen to the breeze whistling and the way it played and carried the leaves about.

We stand in silence, just listening to the water. It's nice, not having to talk and to just exist as a person. As a child and not whatever it is father wants me to be. He already made me handle a gun.

After a while, I ask, "How old are you?"

"Six," she answers, her voice is a little wobbly.

She wipes her sleeve across her face, and I realize she's been crying. I hesitate, then take her small hand and pull her down to sit beside me on the fountain edge.

"Why are you sad?"

Her fingers trace circles on the stone edge of the fountain. "M-My mom died," she stutters in a whisper. "And my father... he doesn't care. He just tells me to behave. To do what I'm told. But I miss her."

I don't know what to say. I just nod. I get it, in a way. We're both stuck in lives that don't care how we feel. My myother was dead too, at least that's what father told me but i never really got to meet her much. I can barely even remeber what she looked like unless I stare at the tall painting of her that seats in fathers study just behind his chair on the wall. She was never a part of my life even before she died so I never cared much after but I still miss her sometimes, the presence of a mother I never really felt. Some of fathers men say I look like her,I have her pretty green eyes and her nose. I don't really know, i'm just a kid.

"I'm sorry," I manage to say. "It's hard, isn't it? Trying to be what they want us to be."

She nods, shoulders shaking. "Sometimes, I feel like I'm all alone."

I squeeze her hand. "You're not alone. I'm here. I'll keep you safe."

She looks at me for a long second, then smiles-a small, shaky smile, but it makes her freckles stand out more.

I don't really know who she is, and maybe I lied when I said I'd protect her. But in that moment, she trusted me. And that meant she was mine now.

We sit there, quiet, holding onto something neither of us can name.

Then, a loud voice calls her name from the house. She sighs, standing up and brushing off her dress.

"That's my brother. I have to go," she says, looking down at me. "But we'll see each other again, right?"

I nod. "Yes, Coraline."

She walks away, back into the bright lights of the house. I watch until she disappears inside.

We'll meet again, my Coraline.