The Heir's Secrets [Mafia Games 1]

Copyright © 2020 by MXian

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

Scenes, characters, dialogues and events in this story are all invented. This story contains mature themes, profanity, violence, and sexual content not intended for young readers. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this story or plagiarism of any kind is prohibited by the law.

- Author's Notes - Thank you for giving this a read! This is a rewrite of my first crime/romance/paranormal story. Sit tight and enjoy ❤

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

◇ KEL ◇

Milan, Italy

Today wouldn't be any different.

This wouldn't be another one of those days. I had prepared for this, prepared my brain for instances like this.

My breaths had already turned shallow and quick. But I was in control; everything would be okay. I'd make it out of here easily—like everybody else—calm and in an orderly fashion.

I repeated the hopeful words in my head while my eyes focused on the wide mirror in front of me. "You're fine. Keep it together. You're in public. You've done your job...had a good run. Time to go home." I pushed stubborn strands of hair away from my cheeks, ignoring the anxiety welling up in my eyes.

My hand clasped the edge of the cold sink as I tried to stop the voices. They weren't exactly voices, though...more like, unwanted thoughts that threaten my sanity. My lips wrinkled into a frustrated frown as my paper-white reflection stared back at me.

The wipes my fingers crumpled dampened my skin with a coolness my dazed senses could barely register. I rubbed the foundation off my face and the swift, repetitive strokes started to chafe some color on my cheeks.

Two opening shows yesterday, one closing for this afternoon, and all went well. Typical work day—round-the-clock schedule, consecutive shows, nonstop changing and dressing up. My feet and back were killing me but at least I didn't trip or fall off the catwalk.

It had been my routine for three straight weeks now, including the work days I had to get up at 5AM to travel to the city for castings and fittings. I sighed. If I had other options, I'd quit in a heartbeat and find an easier job. But that wouldn't pay off my family's bank loans and credit card bills, would it?

As I leaned against the cold sink, a massive headache weakening my muscles started to bleed my patience dry. If this wasn't an escalating anxiety attack, then why did I feel like passing out on the floor right now?

Because you're weak...

Always been, always will be...

You're nothing but a stupid, gullible, pathetic wannabe...

◇

"Greetings, Ms. Nielsen.

We have received your application letter and regret to inform you that your application has been disqualified due to inconsistencies we have observed on your personal information sheet. We also failed to verify the birth records you have attached to your application files.

UCMLE's scholarship committee reserves the right to reject an application if false information has been provided. Scholarship grants awarded by UCMLE's committee are limited and are on a first come, first serve basis. Providing false or incomplete information on the application forms will immediately result in the applicant's disqualification. Charges of larceny and forgery may also be filed against applicants who knowingly provided false details in the scholarship application forms.

Should you have any concerns regarding this matter, our administrative department will be available Monday to Friday during office hours to provide any assistance, but we cannot guarantee that every request will be honored.

We wish you good luck on your future endeavors.

UCMLE SC Head Office"

It might have taken three re-reads and half an hour before my shock lessened to a manageable degree, only to let the disappointment and reality sink in.

Dropping the impeccably folded paper on my lap, I hunched over on the toilet seat cover, put off by the scrupulous people behind this disappointing act of rejection. I didn't open the letter until I was sure I would no longer have to face any of my employers or agents today. The letter had to wait. I put it off all night and all morning. I focused first on the jobs I had to do today.

All I had hoped for since those weeks of prepping the vexing amount of scholarship requirements, until today, was to be given a chance—a chance to join the list of scholarship awardees, and a chance to make my academic goals a reality this year.

UCMLE, a prestigious international school known to support local and foreign undergrads, provided the much coveted medical scholarship programs to those who qualified and met their exigent criteria. I had been waiting patiently for months. Long, tiring, anxious months.

A positive response was what I expected, of course. However, fate seemed to have a different plan for me and my future.

Modeling was a temporary thing, just a means to support myself financially for the time being, really. Not getting any younger and a lifelong career in the modeling industry? Moving to the North Pole would be less impossible.

A bachelor's degree in the field of study I'd chosen remained as my ultimate goal. But it seemed the odds weren't in my favor.

Not yet, perhaps. I would try again, but that would mean I was out-and-out desperate. Maybe I should just go home and try my luck in other colleges?

That would mean I had to take weeks off work, though. It would cost me more time and money. Although my mom and dad would be glad to help out, I wouldn't dare ask them for help. They had enough bills to worry about.

Money was becoming an issue these days, seeing as my dad was in and out of the hospital, battling respiratory complications his illness had once again triggered. I sighed and composed a short prayer in my head.

God willing, my dad's current condition would improve in the coming months. Rather unlikely, but we still prayed for his health to improve after this fourth hospitalization. The constant prayers might just work.

My eyes shut tight while my palms covered my face, and before I could finish the prayers in my head, my phone's shrill noises broke off my thoughts.

New message

From: Jill

"You busy?"

Today 3:19PM

◇

"Mykaela? You there? Kel?"

The familiar female voice made me relax my fist and momentarily forget about my unsettling thoughts. The oddly painful sensation in my gut told me it wasn't going away anytime soon. I should be used to this type of rejection by now, given the nature of my current job, but the constricting feeling in my chest just wouldn't go away.

"Yeah," I muttered after putting my phone on speaker mode. It was my sister, Jill, calling to check up on me all of a sudden. I didn't want any more family drama, so I took the call when I saw my older sister's photo and name on the screen.

"Are you still at the show? Sorry. Really wanted to be there but the hubs had to fly out."

"It's fine." I zipped up my coat until it totally covered my shirt.

"You sound weird. Eat breakfast and lunch yet?" Jill asked over the line, probably worrying about my skinny figure.

"Yeah. I'm fine." I used a more pleasant tone to cover up my lie. My voice didn't falter, thankfully. I put the call on the background to check if I had unread messages. Wait—

It was way past lunch. Miles could be around the area. I should text him now.

"Sure?" my sister asked. "What'd you eat? Don't say eggs again."

"Yeah. Precisely." I took a deep breath, pretending my rapid heartbeat didn't bother me. "How's baby Meesha?"

"Always sleeping when not hungry. Mom keeps saying you're still too skinny." Just like that, Jill moved on to more pressing family issues. "She keeps Googling recent photos of you and Miles; it's hilarious."

"Ugh. Please don't tell me she found posts of his self-portraits," I droned on. I'd been praying my puritanical parents hadn't stumbled upon my roomie's latest paintings yet.

"Too late." Jill laughed a little. "Her mouth just hung open for an entire minute. Can't blame her, though. Your boyfriend's got mad painting skills. I mean, whoa..." Jill paused to giggle again. "Those paintings looked so...anatomically correct."

I sighed. She was referring to the nude paintings Miles just finished. "For the hundredth time, not my boyfriend." I paused to think. "He likes guys. Jeez...this is gettin' exhausting." Not my problem our parents didn't believe my roommate only let me live with him because I liked to clean and cook.

"Maybe he's bi. Did you even ask?" Jill teased. "Anyway, no after-parties tonight?"

"Not interested." I abstractedly stared at my recently retouched and free manicure. Perks of being a full-time model. Lately I just didn't have the time to pamper myself, or deal with the usual anxiety disorders we working models had to hide on a regular basis. I'd easily choose to lounge in bed reading my new cardiology and pathology ebooks rather than spend all night partying with younger models whose last names I didn't even know.

"Why? You're goin' out with Miles?"

"Got somethin' else planned." I mumbled the white lie while checking my message inbox.

Why hadn't Miles replied? Was he busy hanging out with friends?

Impatience started intensifying my headache, so I decided to text him again. "Driving to the venue now? Pls wait in the parking lot," I sent twice.

He wasn't supposed to pick me up this early, but I just needed a friend right now. A comforting hug would be real nice, too.

Better days ahead, K. Better days will come.

I stepped out of the toilet stall where I'd been hiding, while doing some arms-above-the-head, standing yoga poses. I could barely breathe the first time I read the rejection letter.

My last panic episode months ago being the worst, I actually did some research. Turns out I had an anxiety disorder. I'd tried some self-treatment I read online, because, if I hadn't, Miles would've dragged me to a psychiatrist in a heartbeat. Which was the last thing I would go for. My bank account said enough. Seeing a shrink? Just out of the question. For now, at least.

"How true is it that his family's filthy rich?" Jill's voice drifted off to a whisper, her tone curious and a bit playful.

"They run two businesses, I think."

"Sounds accurate. The rumors are true, then," Jill muttered on the other end. "By the way, Mom told me to remind you to submit another application to NYU School of Med."

Ugh. Not again... I rolled my eyes. I'd applied into that same school two years ago. So far, not even a short rejection letter to show my folks. Hence my decision to move to another country to try working as a model here, because, apparently: no hard cash, no medical degree.

"K, she really wants you home," my sister went on. "She found videos of Miles drinking and partying. So, now Mom and Dad's more convinced your roomie's bad influence."

"Fine. Tell 'em I'll make time this month." I stood alone by the sink, unsure of what else to say.

Although I didn't appreciate the idea of another drastic change in my everyday life, I would submit another slew of scholarship applications to the medical schools in New York, just to appease my mother's worries. I frowned.

My entire savings couldn't even pay for half of my tuition should I choose to resume my studies in New York. And now my parents wanted me to quit my only job and go back to university?

After saying goodbye to Jill over the phone, I let my shoulders droop.

It wasn't until I heard a clicking sound that my senses went on full alert again, acknowledging the complete silence around me. The bathroom looked clean and the lights stayed bright enough, but the space was still rather small. The tension was again building up in my chest.

Darn those rejection letters. I should have just thrown them in the trash right away. Shouldn't have read them over and over. It shouldn't have bothered me that much, but I still hightailed it. Packed up and left New York. Left my family and friends just like that.

Luck was on my side when I'd met Miles again, or else I wouldn't have mustered up the will to just move away from home and make a living in a foreign country. And owing to his laudable niceness and very generous parents, I was able to follow through. If someone asked me, I'd honestly say I now loved my life here in Italy.

Then my message alert tone paused my train of thought again. It should be Miles. I checked my phone. Yep. He sent a reply: "Just parked in the far left. Where u at?"

"Thanks. Omw out." I sent the reply fast, mindful of my dizzy, aching head and cold hands. I shoved my phone back inside my satchel and headed out of the ladies' room.

It's just a short walk. Five minutes tops. Deep breaths...

No negative thoughts.

"You're fine. Miles is waiting out there," I reminded myself.

A minute later, I started jostling my way out of the crammed lobby, politely mumbling "Excuse me" and "Sorry" every now and then. My vision began to blur when a ringing in my ear intensified, drowning out the party music playing over the blaring speakers, the sounds of champagne glasses tinking, high heels click-clacking, and the loudening buzz of the conversations around me.

Jeez. I needed to get out of here. Now.

My stomach rumbled again. I took another deep breath and kept up a steady pace. I could make out the sidewalk behind the building's wide windows. There weren't as many people loitering by the entrance—twenty or so.

To seem perfectly normal, I smiled at the guard who opened the entrance door for me. "Hi." I put on a smile, which disappeared soon enough when I made it out the huge glass doors.

An array of vehicles lined either side of the sunlit street. I started my hasty strides towards the parking lot, thankful that my intakes of breath weren't as forced and noisy. Street noises echoed around while my eyes skimmed the multi-colored lines of parked cars.

My anxious search didn't last a minute because I soon caught a glimpse of a tall, dark-haired guy in a familiar pair of sneakers. He stood by a black sedan with his back to me, his attention held by his cellphone.

Ah...my happy pill.

I wanted to call out to him, but my throat felt funny, almost compressed.

"Hey." Miles spotted me and put his phone away, his brisk steps accompanied by dark, scrunched brows. Old paint smudged the hem of his wrinkled shirt. During season breaks, if he wasn't doing print jobs, Miles spent days and nights in his studio just painting and painting, until he would eventually lose either inspiration or concentration.

"What's up?" Miles asked upon reaching my side. His brows crumpled more when he noticed I'd gone stiff as a board in the middle of the sidewalk.

"Let's go home," I managed to say without stuttering.

My timid response seemed to bother him. Miles pulled me close to his side. He even bent down to peer at my face. "What?"

"Later," I mumbled before handing him my bag. Miles had already placed his arm around my back. I sped up my steps even though his ride sat a few cars away. My fingers curled inside my pockets while I blinked away the dizziness and warm tears filling my tired eyes.

"You look like you're gonna be sick."

"Just hungry." I glanced behind and fought the urge to cry, holding back the other reason why I felt like I was going to bawl any second now.

Crybaby. No one really likes you. You don't take anything seriously.

You're a quitter. You made that conscious choice over and over. Live with it.

Ugh. The negative thoughts still lingered. I should just sleep it off the minute we get home.

I tried my best not to cry as Miles and I rushed along the busy sidewalk.

"You sure?" Miles didn't seem to believe me, probably because he could easily spot my lies. We reached his parked car in no time.

"Let's just go home."

"You okay or d'you need to throw up?" Miles opened the passenger door for me and leaned against his car. "You don't wanna eat out? Or we could grab dinner along the way."

"I'm good," I said when he kept waiting for me to speak up. "Just having a nervous breakdown."

◇