Gemma: A Mafia Forbidden Romance

She’s beautiful, but awkward, and I laugh at the paradox.

I can’t help but think, based on the small interaction, that she’s like me... imperfect.

“It’s not about knowing anything,” I tell her. “It’s all about feeling. At least, that’s what I think.” Her glossy lips turn up into a smile at my response. “Gemma,” I extend my hand for her to shake, which she takes enthusiastically.

“Chaylene,” She shares. “I’m an artist.” she blurts out. “But I, uh, I just paint. I don’t really know what I’m doing or really what other people see in art, ya know. Thank you, by the way, for talking to me.”

She’s younger than me, but not by much, she’s maybe twenty. “Anytime,” I tell her. “And the secret is that none of us know what we’re doing.”

Her eyes light up in surprise. “Are you an artist?”

“Nope.” I say with a smile. “But I do have a useless degree in Art History.”

She laughs. “To useless degrees,” she raises her champagne flute.

“To useless degrees.” I repeat with a clink of our glasses.

“Hey, my brother owns a bar a block over, want to get a drink?”

It’s only 8 PM, and I turned off my phone so I have no idea how unhappy my family is right now. “Sure,” I answer her. I’m already out, might as well enjoy myself.

We exit the gallery in a swell of excitement. The Adderall is in full gear, it’s the best defender against my depression. Adderall enters my bloodstream like a warrior entering battle. It hunts down every sad feeling, thought, emotion and slays them with one slash of its sword. With Adderall the only feeling left is focus and happiness, both of which I’m content with.

She leads me into an Irish pub, but everything in this city is Irish so I don’t overthink it. The place is called McNastys, and it’s the least sophisticated place I’ve been to. There’s wood everywhere, from the floors to the beams across the high ceiling, to the bar and the shelving behind the bar. It’s intricate, with curves and columns and crown molding. The air is thick with cigarette smoke and my boots stick to the floor as I walk in.

“Russ,” she calls to the lanky redheaded man tending the bar. “I need whiskey.” She smiles, and I think she’s flirting.

“Ah, Chay.” He leans across the bar to give her a quick hug. “Yer brother will kill me.” He has a thick Irish accent, it’s charming if you like that sort of thing.

I slide onto an open bar stool next to a balding man with a beer gut, who looks at me with surprise and Chaylene sits on the stool next to me.

“What’re you having, dear?” Russ asks me.

“Vodka soda, two limes.” I recite my normal drink order. Vodka or wine, that’s all I drink.

He gives me a look that says my drink is too specific for his liking, but silently turns and makes it anyway.

He comes back with my drink and another for Chaylene.

“Our secret.” He tells her and stalks away with a shit-eating grin in place.

“You’re not twenty-one?” I ask, sipping from my drink.

“Few months away.” She takes a sip of the amber liquid filling her low-ball glass. I grimace for her even though she doesn’t look at all appalled by the whiskey.

“Ugh,” I groan. “I hate that stuff.”

“Whiskey?” she smiles. “Must be the Irish in me.”

“Something like that.”

She takes another gulp, and I look away. Whiskey and I are not friends.

“Taking this back.” Russ snatches the glass from her and dumps it quickly.

She groans, turning around. I follow her gaze to a wooden staircase in the back of the bar creaking beneath the weight of the man descending it. He’s tall and built thick and I can make out the outline of his muscles down his abdomen and his bare arms. His arms are covered in tattoos starting from his hands and trailing upwards until they slip under the sleeves of his shirt. I w

onder how much of his body is covered in them? He’s wearing a v-neck and low-slung jeans and he has a leather cord around his neck with something I can’t make out hanging from it.