Chapter 6: Codename: Blackheart Chapter Six

The drive home from the airstrip is peaceful. Just me and the low music coming from the car’s speakers to keep me company. As I’m driving, I take in the Moldovan landscape, allowing it to bring a sense of calm to my body. It’s so good to be home. I haven’t been back in four months. I have properties all over the world and if I’m not staying in a location where I happen to have property, then I stay at a hotel. But when I come back here, I always stay with my parents. One could say I never technically moved out, but I’m travelling most of the year so when I’m back home, naturally, I want to be with my family. 

I’m driving down the familiar winding road through the lush green forests, where the occasional vibrant wildflower pokes its head out and I know I’m nearly home. My parent’s house is located a short distance from Saharna Monastery. We have a private airstrip a thirty-minute drive away, which I really appreciate, as it would otherwise be an almost two-hour drive from Chișinău International Airport. 

I smile as my family’s estate comes into view, and I bring the car to a stop along the gravel driveway. So, technically our estate is a castle. It’s been in my family for five generations, given to us as payment from some oligarch who was indebted to my great, great grandfather. 

Stepping out of the white SUV, I look up at the modest-looking castle, taking in the familiar Brâncovanian architecture. Gosh, I’ve missed this place. It has two stories with a flat root built from terracotta-coloured stone, surrounded by vast gardens that exude a charming and romantic vibe. I soak in the warm, summer air as I lift my Ray Bands onto my head, smiling when a warm breeze hits my skin and causes the sheer, white curtains to billow along the colonnade that runs along the second floor. I know this is my mum’s doing as she likes to keep the windows and doors open in the summertime.

Grabbing my suitcase out of the car, I make my way up to the portico and let myself in. Walking through the short foyer, I step into the spacious main living room made up of soft brown and cream stone walls and stone archways that house so many fond childhood memories. During the day it feels like a soothing holiday home. But when the grand, black chandelier lights up at night, it bathes the place in a romantic glow.

I’ve barely put my suitcase down when I can hear the sounds of shouting in Italian coming from the kitchen. Mum must be in a bad mood. 

My mother is of Italian heritage on her mother’s side and Greek heritage on her father’s side. She was born in Italy but was raised in Greece. She mostly speaks Greek but when she’s pissed off she switches to Italian. My father, however, was born and raised in Moldova, so he sticks to speaking Romanian most of the time, but my parents understand each other just fine. Growing up in a trilingual household has always been highly amusing. 

I make my way to the kitchen and as soon as I step into the kitchen something comes flying fast past my face. I look to the right to find my dad ducking to avoid a kitchen knife that is now embedded in the wall. 

Well, that was a close one.

“Alina! Good God, I nearly killed you! You should be more careful when walking into rooms,” my mum scolds with a worried tone.

“I’m sorry, didn’t realise I needed to look out for flying knives in my own home. My mistake,” I reply sarcastically.

“Well done Dasha, you nearly killed our daughter,” says my dad, standing up straight and glaring at my mother.

“I wasn’t trying to kill her,” my mum points out, making me chuckle.

“Speaking of, why exactly are you trying to kill Dad?” I ask curiously, folding my arms.

“Ask him,” she says bitterly, her thin nose wrinkled in disdain making her plump lips appear fuller.

Dad sighs, “I took a contract away from her and now she’s mad at me.”

“That mark was mine! You had no right to take it!” she shouts angrily as her chocolate brown eyes flare and her glowing white skin burns red with rage, her 5’7” hourglass frame looking poised and ready to kill.

My mother – better known by the codename Aconite due to her love of poisoning her victims, especially using aconite – is fifty-five years old, fierce as hell and stunningly beautiful. She has long straight dark brown hair with bangs, high cheekbones, and a pointed jaw. I did not get my breast size from her, as my mother is an impressive D-cup. Instead, she passed on far more useful traits. She looks like her usual elegant self in tight white slacks, black strappy 5” heels with gold studs on the straps and a black long-sleeve chiffon blouse that dips into her cleavage.

“Love, I said I was sorry. You hadn’t accepted the contract yet, so I assumed it was fair game,” my dad says innocently as he slowly walks towards her. While I got my facial features and skin tone from my mum – though I’m a bit paler – I got my black hair, deep green eyes, and love for tattoos from my dad. 

My dad – better known by the codename Scythe due to the scythes he carves into his bullets, symbolising the grim reaper – is fifty-seven years old, 6’2” with olive skin, a long-pointed nose, and a chiselled jaw with a square chin coated in a trim beard and moustache. Dad is very proud of his physique and likes to show it off, especially for my mum’s benefit. Like my mother, he’s a very sophisticated dresser, but he’s a little more dressed down today, in just trousers and a long-sleeve button-down; probably because Mum’s trying to kill him again. My dad started my love of tattoos, but I turned it into an obsession. He kept it to his chest, back and hands.

“The file was on my desk, obviously I had every intention of taking it and you stole it!” she shouts in irritation. 

I shake my head, “Haven’t you learned to not piss off Mum? Do you like her trying to kill you?” I tease, arching an eyebrow. Trying to kill each other was actually how they met. Mum was the first person to ever take him down, which made Dad fall in love with her.

“Your mother won’t kill me; she loves me too much,” he says, his plump lips smirking confidently, making my mother scoff. “Say you love me,” he commands.

“I hate you,” she says through narrowed eyes.

“Same thing,” he shrugs before he grabs her arms, pulling her to his chest and slamming his lips on hers. She resists for only a second before giving in and wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him back. They’re locked in their heated, lustful kiss when I clear my throat to get their attention. I’m not mad or grossed out though, I love seeing my parents like this. Still loving and desiring each other as much as the day they met. My dad is the first to break their kiss and he grins at my mother.

“You’re an asshole, Silas,” she says, trying not to smile.

“Yes, but I’m your asshole,” he quips back, kissing her nose softly.

“And don’t you forget it.” 

“You know, I’m here too. Or did neither of you miss me?” I say, pouting. 

My dad lets out a chuckle, “Come here, my little warrior. Of course, we’ve missed you.” He bounds over and wraps his arms around me, picking me up and swinging me around. I giggle as I hug him tightly. Now, this is the welcome home I wanted. When he puts me down, he moves his hands to the side of my face, and I see nothing but pride and adoration in his eyes. “You get more beautiful by the day, just like your mother,” he says softly, placing a kiss on my forehead.

“And you get more troublesome,” I smirk, earning a laugh from him. “No plans for retirement then?” I ask with a straight face, waiting for his reaction. 

He stiffens and looks at me coldly. “You wash your mouth out, young lady! I am far too young to retire. I still have perfect aim,” he says as he stuffs his hands in his pockets. It's Mum’s turn to laugh.

“She’s the only one who you let rile you up like this. She still has you wrapped around her finger,” she teases as she opens the fridge grabbing a bottle of wine.

“She gets that from you,” he says accusingly. Mum just smirks as she grabs three glasses from the top cabinet and starts pouring out the wine. 

The kitchen is a beautiful mix of old and modern with grey stone tile floors and walls a mix of golden-brown wood and grey stone. It’s so nice being back in a real kitchen. Hotel mini-bars or the small kitchenettes that are in many of the apartments I own are just not real kitchens to me. 

I walk over to the kitchen island as Mum slides a glass of wine over to me. “How did everything go while you were gone? All your jobs go smoothly?” she inquires coolly as she picks up her own glass and sips. I don’t fail to notice her carefully assessing me for injuries. Mum is a badass and taught me to be one too, but as proud of me as she is, she still worries about me, and I love her for that. 

“They all went great. Had to make the odd decision on the fly but everything else was fine. My last job was probably the most interesting one out of the bunch,” I say enthusiastically as I sip my wine.

“Oh? What was so interesting about it?” Dad asks as he picks up his glass and leans against the kitchen island.

“Double hit. Set of cousins hired me to take each other out.”

Mum raises her eyebrow, “That is interesting. So, what did you do?”

“Accepted both contracts and completed them,” I tell them with a sly smile. 

Dad lets out a booming laugh wrapping his arm tight around me. “That’s my Little Warrior,” he says with pride, and I grin up at him.

“How come Marcel didn’t come back with you?” Mum asks.

“He wanted to go home and see Vivienne first, but he’ll come by tomorrow with her to catch up.”

“Excellent. I’ll prepare a welcome home dinner for tomorrow then. We haven’t had one in ages,” she says excitedly as she walks to me and pulls me into a tight hug. “It’s so good to have you home, Alina,” my mother whispers affectionately in my ear. 

I hug her back as tight as I can and kiss her cheek. “It’s good to be home,” I respond, smiling at her.

“Someone else will be happy to see you,” says my dad. I look at him curiously as a loud voice shouts getting my attention.

“Where is my little Blackheart?!” my grandfather’s deep but silky voice filters into the room, and my face breaks out into a huge grin as he enters.

“Grandpa!” I shout and leap at him. 

He catches me in his strong arms and holds me to him as he chuckles. “Did you get more tattoos? There won’t be any unmarked skin left soon,” he teases.

“Very funny,” I say, kissing his cheek. Gosh, I haven’t seen Grandpa Titus in months. I’ve missed him like crazy.