Into My Open Arms

V A L E R I U S ' P O V :

The streets seem to whisper to me, the cars fly past, their tires splashing against the rain. It's much lighter than it was before.

A sense of relaxation strikes through my body. The rain can be peaceful. The damp, sticky weather, relaxing. The memories it holds for me all weigh bad or good.

I've called off my driver for the night in hopes of finding peace alone. They dropped me off just twenty minutes ago.

My feet hit the pavement as I walk. I swipe my thumb over my watch, clearing it from the small raindrops. I check the time.

My house is only a short five minute walk from here.

This moment feels like peace, a feeling I haven't felt since— a feeling I haven't felt in years. The meeting with the Spanish mafia went well. Marco agreed to give us more pay if we hand over more protection at one of their bases in Italy.

Though, while I am calm, I dread going home to a place that doesn't feel like home. I dread going everyday. It's much different than Italy.

A sound pulls me out of my thoughts, something much louder than the sounds of the cars or the light rain. It sounds almost like running.. my hand begins to reach for my gun, heavy breathing and—

I halt to a stop when I felt something crash into my legs. It takes me a split second to realize it's a body. The small body slams backwards and onto the cold, wet pavement. My hands reach out instinctively to catch it but I am too late.

Long brown hair, bruised legs and no shoes is the first thing I notice.

Something rises in my chest. I may be cruel but a child is something very different compared to a guilty man. A sort of panic flushes through me.

A scream racks through the crying child's body when the thunder cracks.

I bend down quickly, reaching my hand out to help the girl up but she flinches back, screaming. Terror strikes my chest.

Am I really that terrifying?

"I won't hurt you." I say, just a few inches away.

I reach out again and this time she does nothing. So, I pick the small girl up and hold her to my chest. Confusion stammers through me.

I can hear her staggered breathing. I feel her shaking body. Though, as soon as I hold her, she screams. Loud.

"Fuck!" I hiss when she kicks against me, sobbing and screaming all at once. My eyes widen. I let her go for a moment out of pure shock. "What the hell!?" I mutter.

The girl starts to run away from me but I catch up to her and grab her again. I'm not stupid enough to let a hurt child run off. Clearly she's seen some shit.

She wails against my arms, kicking as hard as she can. I think this kid can kick harder than some of my men. I hold the girl tight to my chest while I kneel. My right arm keeps her head laying to my chest and my left wraps tightly around her waist.

I hush her, brushing back her hair slowly. How do you stop a screaming child? My mind starts to wonder back to how my mother would stop tantrums when I was young. Though, my mother was never good at discipline, so I did the opposite.

I speak quietly to the girl, trying to not amp up her fear.

"Hush, piccolina. I won't hurt you."

Her wails become quieter but her sobs never stop. She is choking on her own cries hysterically. Something pulls at my heart but I brush it off.

"I'm going to take you home now, sí?"

I feel the fabric of my shirt become tight and I realize the girl is pulling at my shirt, beaconing me to hold her tighter.

"Oh come on." I mutter to myself. Please don't like me. I need her not to like me.

I don't do kids and I definitely don't do crying kids.

But again, a feeling tugs at my heart. I cave—picking the girl up, sighing. My hand rub up and down on her back. Her skinny legs find their way around my waist.

I roll my eyes to myself.

This really can't be happening.

And to think I was having such a good night too.

As I walk I notice the girl's hiccups get quieter, her breath steadying. A part of me relaxes. I didn't even realize I felt so on edge.

Eventually I see my house and my feet carry faster. I notice how the girls body now slumped against me, asleep.

I'm thankful to not hear the loud crying anymore.

Just as I reach the large black, metal gates to my house, a gunshot rings out. I stop, my hand on the keypad to the gates. I turn around and see nothing, I only hear the screech of a car.

"Damnit, piccolina. What'd you get yourself into?"

• • •

My mind ran with thoughts that I didn't really want to think.

Like, what the hell am I going to do with this girl?

On my bed her body lays. It took fucking ages to peel her off of me. Like a little slug or better yet, a leech.

In the light I can see now the deep bruises on her little pale legs. The sinking of her cheeks, how malnourished she is, the matting of her hair. I see the cuts that lay on her skin, the scabs on her feet. A fire rages from inside of me.

She looks dead. I don't know how she was running before. She must be tough to run in her condition.

I can't tolerate harm towards children even if I dislike them.

What happened? Is the only question that has been picking at my mind. Well.. and who the fuck did this?

It's not everyday a child is found running on the cold, wet streets of New York. But it's also not everyday that a beaten up kid finds the arms of a fucking mafia Don.

The kid stirs and my heart clenches unwillingly. Her face contorts in pain and it feels like a stab to my gut.

"Damnit, child! Stop doing that." I grumble to no one but the quiet room.

I don't like what she's doing to me.

I'm narrowing it down to pity.

A knock sounds and suddenly I'm aware that the girl could wake. She whines in her sleep but shows no signs of waking up.

"Entra." I command.

My best guard and closest acquaintance walks inside: John Ambrose.

His eyes meet the girl on the bed before looking at me with a unreadable stare.

"You called for me, Don."

The door shuts behind him.

John is in his early thirties. He's worked his way up through the ranks and is the most trusted guard I have. He has a wife, three kids. A son who is now nine and twin daughters who are the age of seven.

"I did." Silence consumed us for a moment before I speak again. "You have kids."

John straightens his posture, his eyebrows raising.

"I do." He says, intrigued to where I'm going with this conversation.

"What—," I start but stop because of the girl flinches in her sleep. It feels like a slap to the face. I wait for her to stay still. "What do I do."

John blinks at me but I'm completely serious. He stays silent.

"You have kids, John. What do I do."

"I— Well." He sighs acting like this situation is insane.

"You make it sound like I'm crazy. Do I sound like it?" I enquire, my focus turning towards him.

"No." John was quick to say. "I'm only slightly confused. May I ask a question?" I nod. "It's just— why am I here? And where did you find a child?"

"You said question. That was singular. Then you proceeded to ask two. If anyone is crazy it's you." I deflect.

"I never said you were crazy, Don."

"What if I feel it?" My eyes narrow at the small girl who was plucking at my heart without even being awake.

Is she some sort of fucking witch?

"Why would you have a reason to feel crazy?"

"Because I found this girl and in a matter of seconds, she was able to make me feel as though someone was stabbing me in the chest. Why?"

John is quiet for a moment, he looks between me and the girl with the tear stained cheeks.

"I believe that's called worry."

My throat feels restricted. "Like pity? I knew it." I whisper the last part to myself.

I only care because I pity the girl. I can't actually care.

"No, not pity." My head snaps towards John's. "Worry, it's different." He takes in a breath. "When my wife birthed our son, his umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck." I blink at John. I never knew that. "Before that I never really knew worry. I grew up with a strict father who taught me that I shouldn't fear anything. But.. but in that moment, I felt worry for the first time because that boy was my son. I knew couldn't stop what was happening. Worry happens when something feels out of your control."

My jaw ticks. But this girl isn't my daughter. Then again, I know John is right. I do know worry. I knew it five years ago, right before I lost the love of my life.

I don't want to admit that I can feel it again.

I vowed, years ago, to never let anyone back in. To never let my cold heart thaw. But now, here I am. In front of a child I just met two hours prior and I'm feeling.

I don't like it.

"What. Do I do." I almost whisper after thinking deeply.

"I think only you can't decide that for yourself. But, I do think this little girl needs a bath and someone to care." John's words seep into my brain. Someone to care. "For now, I'll call my wife. See if she has any clothes left from when our girls were little. She will need some clean clothes."

I nod. "That'll be all, John."

He bows in respect and leaves the room.

My jaw ticks as I stand as far away from the bed as I possibly can. I'm afraid that if l get too close, this tiny little demon will make me want to care.

• • •

An hour. It took an hour to get the little demon-spawn-leech to stop screaming.

I tried to have one of my female guards bathe her but the woman ended up leaving with blood a bloody nose because this little girl decided to try and escape. The demon-spawn clearly likes no one else so that idea went out of the window.

And against everything I stand for, I am here, sitting in a bathtub with swim trunks on, bathing a child.

Misery.

Complete fucking misery.

But this torture strains from something else. When I took the bloodied dress off the girl, I found layers of bruises, deep gashes, cigarette burns. It ignited a fire within me, I had leave for a moment so I didn't make a scene in front of the child. Instead, I made a scene in my hallway where now three shattered frames lay on the ground.

And then I went back and felt.

Her tiny curled up body, shaking. She still had dry blood all over her, it could cause infection.

Who the fuck tortures a child like this?

It almost makes me want to vomit and I've never been squeamish around the crimson color.

I sit here in the third round of bath water, each before becoming too dirty and I had to drain it. I bathe the girl in silence, not knowing what the hell I'm doing.

But I guess I should see if she'll talk.

I let a cup of warm water pour down her hair, a (much lighter than before) pink color fell from the strands. I let out a breath. My chest feels like an elephant sits on top.

The girl's eyes are closed, her small hands gently play with the water. Tapping it, flicking it.

"Piccolina—" The kid jumps a little at my voice like she forgot I was here. Her jolt makes a splash in the water.

Jesus fuck.

"Hey.. child it's okay." I say softer, trying to pick at her hair with a comb. For some reason, she listens to me and relaxes. Why did this have to be me? "Do you have a name?"

Do you know what a name is? I mean how long was this girl locked up?

"Nome? A name?" I press on but she sits quietly, unmoving.

What feels like a minute later, she nods her head.

"Are you gonna tell me it?" Mumbles make their way out of her mouth, it's too soft for me to make out. "Say that again for me?"

"Eleonora."

The softness of her wary voice rises hairs on my arms, her fragile voice picks the strings of my heart, playing it like a harp.

After too long of silence, I clear my throat.

"That's a beautiful name, sí?" I try to ignore the way she winces when I pick at her hair too hard. I'm trying so hard to be gentle but that word just isn't in my vocabulary. "My name is Valerius." I tell her like she's going to greet me or even speak to me without me insinuating a conversation.

I lick my dry lips. Why is this so difficult?

"Eleonora.. do you have a mamma or papá?"

I hope whatever bastard took her didn't make her watch her parents death. No child should see that.

With the silence weighing on my chest she finally shakes her head no and a pain aches in my chest.

I give up on her hair for tonight, my hand is cramping. I tie it in a small ponytail with a rubber band I found in my bathroom. It didn't work so the hair is loosely tied, half fallen out. I don't know how to do hair.

What the fuck.

"Eleonora, turn for me. I need to get your face." And she listens, slowly she turns out of my lap and faces me, her eyes don't meet mine.

I reach out and slowly turn her face up, grabbing a small white rag. Her eyes stay squeezed shut and my heart does the pinchy thingy. I notice her hands are balled in tiny fists and she's fighting so hard to not get scared.

Damnit, child. I shook my head softly.

"Breathe, piccolina. I'm here to help you." I try to reassure her but hell I don't even know if she understands half of what I'm spitting out.

The warm rag gently glides over her dirty cheek and she flinches back. Still, I continue.

"Open your eyes, Eleonora." I try to sound nice.

I watch as her chest heaves. I hear the shaky breaths she tries to disguise. I hush her, rubbing my thumb over her cheek. Then, by my surprise, her eyes open.

Crystal blues remind me of ones so similar.

My heart pounds against my rib cage. I try to create moisture in my dry mouth, my eyes never leaving hers.

You've got to be kidding me.

"Pretty eyes." I state blankly, a lump forming in my throat.

• • •

I left the girl in my room.

Takes my time, takes my bedsheets, takes my dignity. What more could a girl want?

I'm in my office, drinking anything but sobriety.

On my computer screen lays links to several orphanages in New York. Yet, none of them seem good enough for the girl.

My finger taps my desk. Tap, tap, tap. My head aches at the night I'm having. Though, I know I can't keep the kid. I don't know a thing about raising them other than I know my parents did a shitty job.

"Entra." I respond to the knock at my office door.

John nods his head in respect before setting a pile of clothes on my desk. I look at him with an eyebrow raised.

"Clothes, for the girl. My wife brought them."

"Eleonora." I find myself correcting him.

"What?"

"The girl's name. Eleonora." A look appears on John's face. One I'm sure I don't like.

"Eleonora." He corrects himself. A odd look takes his face. "I hope these will fit." He says before walking out with a small smile.

Later, I find myself walking back to my room to check on the girl. Just making sure she's still alive. I don't really care.

But something slaps me across the face when I hear her screams.

I never mauled a door down so quickly in my life. The clothes in my hands drop to the floor when I pull out my gun. Rage consumes me at the thought of someone hurting the kid.

When my eyes scan nothing in the room but a crying figure curled up on my bed, I put my gun away, rushing to the girl. Why? I have no idea.

"Hey, shh. Shh it's okay." I find myself picking the frightened girl up and placing her in my lap. My hand coving her head so it's close to me.

"What happened to you." I hush more to myself than to Eleonora.

I hold the crying toddler until she falls to sleep, my tight grasp never leaves it's hold.

What am I gonna do with you? I ask myself, my eyes study the tiny features of her face.

While my thumb rubs gently on her cheek, I notice how she isn't flinching or whimpering. For once she's quiet. Finally she quiets down.

"William!" I call out and in walks the guard who stands outside of Ellie's room.

Wait. What?

Eleonora's room. I shake my head of my stupid thoughts. No nicknames. No attachments. What kind of nickname is that anyways.

"Don." He bows his head.

"You heard screaming coming from this room and you did nothing. Am I correct?"

His gaze falters. "I— yes." I ignore the fact he didn't answer me properly only because I want to rip his head off.

"And you failed to protect her if there was a danger?"

"Yes, Don."

"And you continued to listen to the screaming child without even a pinch of worry?"

"Yes, Don."

Each time he repeats it, his voice gets tighter.

"Get out." I say coldly.

When he doesn't, my glare hardens.

"Stay in this room for another second and you'll find death is right outside of this door. You'll be on front security from now on. One more mistake and you're dead. Replace your stand with John."

Something flashes through his green eyes, his jaw clenches. "Yes, Don." He grits out then leaves.

My cold features release after he was gone. I look to the sleeping figure that lays in my arms.

What am I going to do now?

• • •