A Night With The Ruthless Mafia Don

Marisa’s eyes fluttered open, and she groaned as the sunlight streamed through the open blinds, casting bright rays onto her face.

Attempting to focus, she squinted, her gaze landing on the white ceiling above her. Her vision shifted to the right, where she noticed a needle discreetly inserted into the back of her right palm.

Tracing the thin, straw-like tube connected to the needle, her eyes followed it to a transparent bag suspended in the air by a metal hook, containing a yellowish liquid.

Her observations were interrupted by a voice, breaking the silence of the room. “Seems like you’re awake, Marisa Russo?” Marisa shifted her attention toward the source of the voice, finding a young lady standing by the window.

“Who are you?” Marisa inquired, raising a questioning eyebrow at the lady, who appeared to be around her age.

“My name is Clarabelle. And you are Marisa Russo,” the lady, Clarabelle, responded.

“Me? Marisa Russo?” Marisa questioned, her hand instinctively reaching to touch her chest.

“Yes, that’s your name. Or do you not remember?” Clarabelle’s brows furrowed with concern.

“My name? I don’t remember my name,” Marisa admitted, her confusion evident.

“It’s possible that the accident caused damage to your brain,” Clarabelle explained, walking away from the window.

“Accident? What accident?” Marisa’s confusion deepened.

Clarabelle sighed softly. “I found you unconscious next to a badly damaged car, and brought you here. It appears you suffered a brain injury during the accident.”

“Accident? When did this happen?” Marisa’s voice was tinged with bewilderment.

“One hour ago.” Clarabelle answered.

“I had an accident one hour ago?” Marisa asked, still confused.

“Based on what I could gather, it seems you’re experiencing a form of amnesia,” Clarabelle explained.

“Amnesia?” Marisa echoed, uncertainty etching her features.

“Yes, a condition where you can’t recall anything about yourself or your past,” Clarabelle clarified.

“How then do you know my name? Who are you?” Marisa’s curiosity persisted.

“I found your identity in these,” Clarabelle replied, extending a stack of papers toward Marisa.

Taking the papers slowly, Marisa scrutinized the contents. Her confusion deepened when she realized they were pregnancy test results.

“These are pregnancy test results,” Marisa remarked, lifting her gaze to meet Clarabelle’s eyes. “Am I pregnant?”

“Yes. The doctor confirmed you’re three weeks pregnant, and fortunately, the accident didn’t harm the pregnancy,” Clarabelle explained.

“How did you come across this information?” Marisa inquired.

“That’s the only piece of your past that I managed to find when I discovered you unconscious near your wrecked car. It was tucked inside the jacket you were wearing,” Clarabelle answered.

“So, I’m going to be a mother?” Marisa’s tone was a mixture of amazement and uncertainty.

“That’s right. You’re going to become a mother soon, Marisa Russo.” Clarabelle’s response was gentle, offering reassurance in the midst of Marisa’s disoriented reality.

*

*

*

Marisa’s eyes snapped open, and she gasped for air as if she had been holding her breath for an eternity. She glanced around and she realized that everything was just a dream.

The room around her was shrouded in light as the bright rays of sunlight filtered through the curtains. Her heart pounded in her chest, the remnants of her dream still haunting her.

It was a dream that shook her to the core. For the past five years, ever since she woke up in the hospital, she kept having the same dream.

As the adrenaline slowly receded, Marisa struggled to bring herself back to reality. She could feel the sweat clinging to her skin, the sheets twisted around her limbs, evidence of her restless slumber. Her trembling hands reached for the alarm which was ringing on the nightstand.

With each slow, deliberate breath, she began to piece together the fragments of her dream. While everyone in the dream appeared as a blur, she alone remained sharply defined. She couldn’t help but wonder if there was some deeper meaning to the dream.

Marisa swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet making contact with the cool, hardwood floor. The dream still clung to her like a shadow, but she knew she couldn’t let it define her day. She needed to shake off the remnants of the dream and confront the new dawn with courage.

Marisa rose from the bed, determined to dispel the lingering unease. She padded softly across the room to the window, where she parted the curtains and gazed out at the serene, bright cityscape. The gentle glow of the sun bathed the world in a tranquil light, and in that moment, she found solace.

As she stood there, the morning breeze ruffling her nightgown, Marisa realized that the dream had, in a strange way, given her a new perspective on her life. It was a reminder of the things left unsaid and the wounds left unhealed.

Marisa glanced at the wall clock, and her eyes widened when she saw the time – it was almost eight o’clock.

“Oh no! Jeffrey will be late for school.” She murmured, walking away from the window, and she slipped into her bedroom slippers.

Emerging from her room, Marisa discovered her best friend, Clarabelle, assisting her five-year-old son, Jeffrey, in preparing for school.

The sight of Jeffrey already dressed and ready eased Marisa’s tense shoulders.

“Good morning, Clarabelle,” Marisa greeted, a blend of gratitude and weariness in her voice as she approached the duo.

“Morning, Marisa,” Clarabelle responded, deftly adjusting Jeffrey’s uniform.

The young boy chimed in with a cheerful “Good morning, mummy,” prompting Marisa to crouch down to his level and place an affectionate kiss on his cheek.

“Morning, sweetheart. Have you had your breakfast?” Marisa inquired, her motherly concern evident in her smile.

“Yes, mummy. Aunt Clarabelle made toast and eggs for me,” Jeffrey beamed, his innocence and contentment shining through.

Turning to Clarabelle, Marisa’s lips carried a grateful smile. “Thank you so much, Clarabelle,” she sincerely conveyed, the weight of her words reflecting their deep connection.

Clarabelle’s response, however, mirrored her characteristic straightforwardness. “Marisa, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve told you not to thank me every time I do something for you,” she admonished, though the warmth in her eyes betrayed her affection.

A playful exchange unfolded, underscoring the familiarity and fondness between the two friends. “You and Jeffrey are family; gratitude is unnecessary,” Clarabelle emphasized, her words resonating with genuine care as she embraced her role wholeheartedly.

With Jeffrey’s school belongings attended to, Marisa retreated to a corner of the room, seeking a moment of respite. She grabbed a bottle of water from the mini fridge, finding solace in its cool touch. However, beneath her composed exterior, the challenges of her morning weighed heavily on her mind.

“But on a more serious note, Clara, you truly deserve a heartfelt thank you,” she remarked after taking a sip of water.

Clarabelle raised a quizzical eyebrow. “And why, exactly, do I merit such gratitude?” she inquired, arms folded across her chest.

“Despite your usual 7 AM work start, you managed to prepare breakfast for Jeffrey and ready him for school, all while running late,”

Marisa responded appreciatively. “Your kindness doesn’t go unnoticed, Clarabelle. Thank you so much,” she added warmly.

Clarabelle playfully shot her a teasing glance before saying, “Marisa, the next time you thank me, I might just…”

The sound of a bus honking interrupted Clarabelle’s unfinished sentence.

“Jeffrey, the school bus is here,” Marisa announced, moving toward her son.

“Goodbye, Aunt Clarabelle,” Jeffrey waved.

“Take care, sweetie,” Clarabelle blew him a kiss from her spot.

Marisa took her son’s hand, and together, they headed out to the roadside where the waiting school bus awaited.

“Bye, Mom!” Jeffrey called as he boarded the bus.

“Goodbye, cupcake,” Marisa waved back, a wide smile on her face.

She continued waving until the bus disappeared from view before reentering the house.

Clarabelle was in the midst of placing her wallet and phone into her handbag. Fully attired for work, she was preparing to leave.

“You look quite fatigued, Marisa. Consider taking a day off to rest,” Clarabelle advised gently.

Marisa shook her head, responding, “I wish I could, but an unscheduled break might jeopardize my job security. My boss, Mr. Lance, isn’t very accommodating.”

“Why not explain your situation to him? I’m sure he’ll understand,” Clarabelle suggested optimistically.

Marisa’s expression grew solemn. “Unfortunately, Mr. Lance isn’t as understanding as you think. Obtaining a break from him seems unlikely.”

“Remember, you worked until midnight yesterday, causing you to oversleep today. Pushing yourself without rest could harm your well-being,” Clara said with genuine concern.

Marisa offered a reassuring smile. “Thank you, Clara, but I’ll manage. Don’t worry.”

With a tinge of sadness, Clarabelle sighed, adding, “Okay, but promise me you won’t overexert yourself.”

“I promise,” Marisa replied with a smile, and they shared a brief hug.

“Take good care of yourself,” Clarabelle urged as she left the house, shutting the door on her way out.Belonging © NôvelDram/a.Org.

Marisa let out a loud sigh immediately the door closed. The thought of going to work that morning weighed heavily on her mind.

Working as a waitress had never been easy, but she had no other choice because she had to fend for herself and her son, and she also had to support Clarabelle in paying for the house rent.

For five years, she had been working as a waitress.

If she was offered any decent job apart from her current one, she’d have gladly accepted it because the stress of working as a waitress was taking a toll on her. Especially the previous day when she worked from morning to night.

The job’s stress was too much than the salary she was receiving, but she had no other choice. She had no school degree that’d get her a high-paying job, neither did she know anything about her past.

According to her best friend, Clarabelle, she had an accident five years ago which resulted into amnesia.

Sometimes, she’d always wonder who she was before she had amnesia.

Was she rich or poor?

Was she from a rich family?

Did she have a boyfriend?

Was she married?

Who impregnated her before she had amnesia?

What did her son’s father look like?

Who exactly was the father of her son?

If there’s something Marisa had always prayed for, it was to regain her memories so that she’d have the answer to all these questions.

These questions bothered her every single day, but no one had the answers, including her best friend, Clarabelle.

Sighing out loudly, Marisa tied her hair into a messy bun. “Time to get ready for work,” she murmured, making her way to the bedroom.