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Skins

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by Laura Rossi




  Table of Contents

  SKINS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  SKINS

  By Laura Rossi

  Editing by Gem Louise Evans

  Cover by Talia’s Book Covers

  © 2017, Laura Rossi

  Self publishing

  laurarossiauthor@gmail.com

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  To my mother, the strongest woman I have ever met

  “Through me you pass into the city of woe:

  Through me you pass into eternal pain

  Canto III, Inferno, The Divine Comedy- Dante Alighieri

  Prologue

  Sebastian and Andrea

  It all starts with the night. One night, one encounter and everything changes. There’s a shift, even if we can’t see it when it all begins. Nothing makes sense there and then, but it will.

  It all starts with the night, the journey through the darkness of our souls. There is never light for those like us, for those of us that live in the shadow, on the streets, running in dark alleyways. You would never cross those streets on your own, you’d end up on the other side of town stripped, hurt, broken.

  But for people like us, bred and brought up on the streets, darkness is the only way to be. We don’t see light, we see desperation. We follow the rules of the streets- only the stronger ones make it, only they hold the power.

  One night and the course of our lives take a different direction. We are connected and never alone again.

  This is not the story of two simple souls, crossing each other's paths. There is nothing ordinary about our love. Not the way we met, not the way we fall. No chocolate or flowers or dates. We were not granted that privilege. But it’s our story.

  Chapter 1

  The Killer

  At first it was a sound almost imperceptible, like a hum. It felt as though the walls vibrated. They were whispering, calling my name.

  I ignored the hum and kept fastening the bandages meticulously around my hands, never looking away from my reflection in the mirror.

  Ready, I was ready. Another fight – fight number ten- since I had arrived in Rome and I had never lost a single match up to then.

  Keep your head down, I reminded myself every time I felt a smug smile spread across my face. I wasn’t invincible, even though everyone told me I was. But I knew better.

  I was a man, made of flesh and bones. I was a man of the streets, brought up and bred in the gutter. I was anything but invincible but I was a fighter. And I was ready, ready to do what I did best. Fight, destroy, bend at my will.

  The hum kept rising. It crept up, through the walls from downstairs, where the club was- the small room I was living in, was just above the battlefield. I hadn’t had time to look for an apartment, I had only been in the city a month.

  Thirty days and already I knew how things worked over there. Same as Naples, back home. A ghetto is a ghetto, when you’ve lived all your life in the street, you recognize one when you see it.

  The crowd was getting rowdier, I could hear them stomping their feet on the floor. It was almost time.

  “Hey. You are on,” Joe walked into my room then. He was all smiles as usual, rocking back and forth, unable to stand still.

  Too much cocaine, it made him a little crazy. I told him once, but he had just shrugged it off and offered me some.

  “I don’t take that shit,” I had said to him, waving it off.

  I didn’t need drugs to feel high. I got high on other things, like freedom and the scent of a beautiful woman.

  Joe was different. He loved money, he loved women but he needed that shit to feel good, to feel important. He wanted to feel part of the crowd. I didn’t. I didn’t give a damn.

  “Coming,” I told him, securing the last strap around my hand.

  No gloves during fights, that was the rule of the club. We could punch, kick, hit in any way we thought was best but no gloves.

  It needed to be as entertaining as possible, as rough as possible. They wanted to see us fight like animals. And what was the difference anyway, between animals and men?

  Honour, pride, instincts- we all strived for power.

  I was a man and I was a fighter. And I was ready to take anyone down, no matter how.

  The heat hit my face as soon as we walked down the stairs, into the club. The place smelled like cheap whiskey and money. Money everywhere, I could see people betting in one of the corners near the ring. Everyone was betting on me, the Killer.

  Joe smiled at everyone, getting the crowd to clap hands while I walked up to my side of the ring.

  He had elected himself my manager the first night I had taken down the winning champion. I had let him, even though I was a loner, because I didn’t know many people in Rome and Joe seemed to know his way around.

  The air was sticky and heavy, too many people that night in the club, it had been filled to the maximum.

  “Killer! Killer! Killer!” they shouted.

  It wasn’t a hum anymore, it was a loud chorus. Everyone called out for me but I kept my face straight, lifting my hand up as a sign of respect, my stride confident and impetuous.

  My rival was already in the ring, staring down at me, cursing and spitting on the floor.

  I suppressed a smile, wanting to preserve my name, my reputation.

  I was “The Killer.” I was the man with no heart, the man as cold as ice. A predator so deadly, I never let my opponents walk away on their own two feet.

  One month in Rome and already I had earned a brand, new nickname.

  I had been called so many things in my life- Shithead from the other kids living in the streets of Naples; Velvet Touch, when I had learned to pick pocket on buses; Iron Fist, when I had started fighting in the clubs over there.

  Now I was gone, I had left Naples behind me, never wanting to go back, never wanting to stay in one place. I had to move, change cities with the same rapidity as I changed girls. The last thing I wanted was to stick around and get too involved in the crime business again. I had done my time, paid the price of stealing and living on the streets.

  Nobody knew my story. I was going to be a different person in every city I stayed.

  I was The Killer now.

  “Kill him! Kill him!” some were shouting.

  My eyes stayed on the other fighter. I took in the sight of him, how is body rocked back and forth, his hand trying to reach for the rope, but he kept losing his balance at every attempt.

  “Killer, Killer,” the crowd invoked all around us then.

  People wanted to see what they had paid for. They wanted to see the ‘Killer’ in action.

  They want blood- I thought.

  With a swift move, I grabbed him by the shoulders and held him tight
in front of me. He was doomed and he knew it, too.

  Panic flickered in the man’s eyes, as he blinked and tried to hit me, to push me away, but his fist came searching for my face with sloppy, slow moves. He was finished. He had no strength left in him.

  That was when I made my final move. I pushed my leg up fast, hard in his stomach and I watched him crash on his knees, as I rolled my hand into a fist and slammed it hard on his face.

  With a loud thud, the man landed on the floor coughing out blood. Both hands went to his face, to cover up the bruised, swollen eyes and then a ferocious roar erupted all around us.

  The crowd was going wild, I could hardly hear the ding of the bell.

  While the ref lifted my arm up as a sign of victory, I looked around the club and nodded, my face serious, unreadable, cold.

  Ten fights, ten victories.

  I felt unstoppable, I felt invincible but I knew better than to smile and show it off.

  I kept my eyes on the target, my head on my shoulders and the words I’ve learned from the streets as a kid, always in my head. Those words were sacred to me. They were my Bible.

  Never show anyone emotions or happiness. They can’t take away, what they don’t know what is yours. That is the first rule you learn, living and getting beaten up on the streets. You learn to be invisible and modest.

  “Our Champion, Sebastian the Killer!” the speaker announced, as I got out of the ring and made my way upstairs again to clean up.

  It was my own personal rule, to never turn to look at my rival after the match. I needed to feel nothing. It was just for the money. It was just a way to survive.

  Chapter 2

  Sad Eyes

  I am an observer, always have been. I never made a move without first pondering it carefully, even when fighting. A teacher once told me observation was what was going to save me one day. I never believed anything out of a teacher’s mouth, doubting their every word, pitying their lessons, their imparted wisdom just the result of faith. Faith in what they had been taught, faith in what someone else had been taught before them.

  I believed in what I could see.

  Observation was my only form of learning and I didn’t know if it was going to save me or not one day, all I knew was that it led me to her.

  I noticed her the moment I set foot back in that dump.

  She stood out in the crowd, too shiny for that glum place, too innocent, too quiet. She was the exact opposite of everything you expected from a woman going to club like that one. She had the saddest pair of blue eyes I had ever seen in my life.

  I couldn’t look away.

  As I walked through the tables, slapping hands with people, my attention was on a group of women near the bar.

  It was not unusual to see women in the club.

  I had seen my fair share of women there. Usually, it was either prostitutes looking to hook up with some poor fucker- his testosterone sky rocketed, hyper over the blood he had just seen sprawl all over the ring – or some woman accompanying a gangster.

  I always stayed clear of them both, waiting for women to come to me, if anything.

  The last thing I wanted was to get involved with anyone. I wanted the mob out of my life.

  We were in ‘The Market’ after all, the sketchiest and wildest neighbourhood in the city.

  It was the place where everyone went when they were up to no good- to sell themselves on the streets, to buy junk or, in this case, for blood. If it was illegal, you could find it in ‘The Market’.

  Even if the place had calmed down a bit after the match, there were still a lot of people getting drinks at the bar.

  I took a seat and patiently waited for Delia, the woman behind the counter, to work her way to my side.

  She spotted me almost immediately and winked, setting drinks on a tray.

  “What can I get you, Killer?” she purred lifting her shoulder up a bit, her full cleavage in sight.

  “Rum, Delia” I smiled a little and looked down to what she was generously showing me. Nice “Can I have some, please?”

  Even if lights were dim near the bar, I could tell I had made her blush a little, her smile became so cheeky just then. She bashed her eyelids at me before turning around slowly and reaching out for the finest bottle of rum in that damn shithole.

  “Coming right up” she said softly, one hand on her hip, as she poured the bronze liquid in my glass. “Anytime, anywhere, whichever way you want it, Killer” Delia gave me another sly glance and then turned to serve the two men standing beside me.

  I smirked at her, as I brought the glass to my lips and then eyed the group of women, standing at the other end of the counter.

  Maybe it was because they were laughing so hard, maybe it was because they stood out in their short dresses and deliciously, sweet fragrances, I couldn’t stop staring.

  “Do you know who they are?” I asked Delia, pointing with my glass to the giggling women.

  “Never seen them before. Looks like a hen night” Delia shook her head and bit her lips, exactly were her piercing was. I had bit that same spot several times. “Looking for more than one woman tonight?” she questioned me, seeing I kept staring at them.

  I gulped down the whole glass and asked for more rum. My cheek was pulsing with life, right where my rival had hit me.

  Fucker, I cursed, thinking of the one time I let him touch me, knowing for sure I would have an ugly bruise for days.

  Anyone that dared touch me, always paid a hard price. And that night the Cobra– that was his fighter name- had walked out of the club with a broken arm. I had felt his bones crack when I had twisted it behind his back.

  I gulped another shot of rum down my throat, without saying anything back to Delia.

  She was wrong, I wasn’t looking for more than one. I wasn’t looking for a quick fuck. If I really wanted that, all I had to do was round the counter and take Delia to the storage room. Or walk through the room and get a hooker or one of the girls I saw Joe speaking to before the match.

  I didn’t want women or just any woman that night. I had my eyes on one in particular.

  All I wanted right there and then, was to know who Blondie was, sitting on the stool with her back to the ring.

  I stared at her, sitting there emotionless, like she wanted to be someplace else, not joining in the conversation, her face glum even when she tried to smile at her friends’ jokes.

  At some point, the woman turned to the side and our eyes met for an instant.

  Her face stayed the same, unreadable, not even a glimpse of emotion crossed her perfect, delicate features.

  I had never seen such fair skin, such a strong contrast with her thin red lips.

  Even from that distance, I could tell her eyes were ice blue. With so many different shades, blue-gray to sapphire, hers were the sort of eyes hard to forget.

  Blondie blinked a few times and then turned away, pretending to listen into her friends’ conversations.

  She wasn’t. She wasn’t listening, I could see her looking to the side, checking me out without turning my way again.

  It was just a matter of minutes, before one of her friends spotted me and gaped, leaning in to the woman beside her. She was talking fast, eager to let them all know what she had discovered.

  “Excuse me” the tallest of the group approached me, walking slowly and smiling wide.

  She stopped and leaned her elbow on the counter, playing with a strand of hair, as she examined me from up close. “Is it really you? The Killer?”

  I nodded and gulped down the last bit of rum left in my glass, while she turned to nod to her friends.

  The blonde woman was staring openly at me now, her blue eyes so bright and serious they held my full attention.

  Sad Eyes -I thought, never looking away.

  They were piercing and cold, I liked them on me.

  “We really enjoyed the show you put up before” the woman smiled to the side and I thanked her.

  “Happy you had fun”

/>   “Can we take a picture with you? If that’s okay. It’s my hens’ night, you see” she pointed to her big fat engagement ring and I nodded again, trying to figure out how many days I could live trouble-free, by selling that fine piece of jewellery.

  Years, I reckoned.

  Crazy. The woman was absolutely crazy to show it off like that, in that dump. In the Market, for crying out loud. She had no idea of the danger she was getting herself into. That’s when I realized, why I kept looking at them before. They were outsiders, they weren’t from the neighbourhood. Every little thing they had on them, screamed of money and power.

  Suddenly, I found myself surrounded by all these good-looking women, wrapping their arms behind my back, my shoulders. They held onto me tight and as they smiled, I could smell the sweet taste of liquor on their breathes.

  They are wasted, I acknowledged.

  “I’ll take the picture,” the blonde woman walked towards us, holding the camera in her hands.

  “No, no,” the tall one said. “Let’s ask the woman at the bar.”

  But blondie shook her head.

  “I’ll do it,” and she took a few shots of us, her eyes hiding behind the camera a moment longer, as we stared at each other again.

  The women giggled and took turns to kiss my cheek- two of them went all the way down to my neck- to thank me for being so kind. I let them hold on to me a second longer, while I kept my attention on blondie.

  She was showing some of her friends the pictures, making sure they were okay. She seemed eager to get away.

  Now that they had a picture and the match was over, they could leave- I heard her say.

  “I could have sworn you were the bride to be” I said to her, before she turned to walk away from me.

  “Why is that?” her voice was calm, low.

  Blondie had the most sensual, raspy voice I had ever heard. It was scratchy and melodic, I was immediately intrigued. And I could tell she was not from Rome. From her accent, I could tell she was not Italian.

 

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