FIRST CHAPTER TIME

OKAY OKAY I know, I'm supposed to be on a writing hiatus. Trust me, I still am okay? I wrote this absolutely ages ago, but tweaked it rather recently and I thought I would give it to you guys, but warning, I probably won't be posting anything else for a good few weeks/months :) (For more info on that visit my profile) I shall still be active :) I really hope you guys like this.

-Lx
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This has got to be the scariest thing I have ever done. Ever. And that's saying something.

So here I am, completely stressed out over Dad, about to start a secret life, and not able to tell anyone, not a soul, who I am. If I do, I will not only risk my life, but my father's, my Grandma's and everyone in the Mafia.

No pressure then!

My palms are pressed against the window of the plane. I stare down at the colony of clouds in the night sky, which float in the air beneath the plane. I am constantly waiting for my first glimpse of England. Even if it is still a few hours until we land, I need something to distract my anxious mind.

Growing up, Dad taught me to speak both English and Italian. We always spoke English around the house as Dad said that it was 'the language of the 7 seas' although Nanny Mary told me that wasn't true. I developed only a slight Italian accent, however, because Nanny Mary was actually the one who taught me the most English, being English herself. The Mafia thought it was best English was my best language in case of any situations like this.

Strange how they think ahead? Well, I don't know what goes on in the incredibly intelligent, knowledgeable and stealthy minds of the Mafia. I wouldn't pass it by them if I said something like this has happened before.

Thinking of The Mafia makes me feel anxious. I sit back in my cushioned recliner, and I nervously glance around the room, watching all the English families heading home, or the odd couple chattering under their breath. No one will recognize me. Sure my Father is notoriously infamous for pulling off ridiculous scandals, and if someone knows Franco Devoto, they may have heard of Clara Devoto... Me.

Funny thing is, my father always kept my face hidden. I guess I never fully understood why until I was of the right age. The enemy gangs have no idea of my appearance (that's why I didn't have to change my first name) and neither do the press that is always chasing my father. He seems to know more about the Italian government than the government does themselves. So they chase him for that, but I'm also nearly a hundred percent sure it is because they want to stick their huge noses into his personal life, which on my side is very disrespectful, but to the readers makes them crave more and more. But then again, they never reach my father because of all the security and secrecy. They only know him by the odd picture, anonymous note, quick video of him getting into a helicopter or him appearing at some celebrity bash, holding a martini and then disappearing like a wisp of smoke.

Oh, how I admire that man.

"Miss Johnson?" I hear a flight stewardess say, her voice dripping with fake happiness.

I bet she gets awfully tired and jetlagged from this job.

I don't look up as she addresses someone sitting across the aisle from me. I play with the diamante skull ring on my finger, letting it slip around and around my index finger, and I pick up an English gossip magazine. My eyes drift over the front picture of some famous pop star caught smoking marijuana with what looks like a whole room full of girls around him. In large letters, the top reads HEART THROB SCANDAL?! I don't know the man, but I'm guessing he is rather famous.

My body tenses as the air stewardess seems to draw nearer to my row, her sky blue skirt nearly pressed to my shoulder. I feel terrified as I inhale her sickly sweet vanilla perfume, and I gulp.

"Miss Johnson," she says, this time in a more pressing tone, the cheerful façade to her voice slipping as she grows slightly agitated.

I wonder why no one is responding. That is rather rude. Curiously, I look up to see why whoever she is addressing in quite a personal greeting isn't acknowledging her.

She looks straight at me with a sickening smile that doesn't meet her tired blue eyes, I stare at her at her for a moment, then notice her manicured nails are gripping the metal trolley tightly, her knuckles turning white so she doesn't lose her temper. Was she talking to me?

Oh yeah. My name's Clara Johnson now, isn't it? Well not legally, but I've got a fake passport and everything. Of course, it is still an Italian passport as I am still supposed to be coming from Italy.

"Sorry, I was um...daydreaming," I apologize.

I'm honestly so scared to make direct eye contact with the woman, just in case she sees the nervousness in my face. Then I may be screwed, and I will need to parachute out of this plane as soon as possible, which would suck because we're over the ocean, and I don't fancy being stranded.

The story given was I am going to stay with my Nan in England, and I am flying alone because my parents are 'hard working workers of the UN'. The airplane people didn't even care much about my reason for flight but promised my Dad's right wing man Milo (who by the way made a very convincing French man on the phone, while acting as one of the main people down at wherever the UN is) that they would take good care of me.

"How are you this evening, Miss Johnson? Is there anything I can get for you?"

She smiles and tilts her head towards her polished food cart, her bleached white teeth make me slightly cringe inside, and I do even more at the sight of all the dreadful airplane food stacked in cling film-covered plates on the trolley.

Why would you even pay for a soggy beef pie with processed and lumpy mash?

"I'm good, thank you."

I smile as realistically as possible while eyeing up the almost inedible content in the corner of my eye, then returning my gaze back to the fake-tanned woman.

"Nervous about going to England? Is it your first time?"

She batters her ridiculously long, thick eyelashes at me and presses her gent bright pink lips together.

"Yes it is."

I cover up my anxiety towards the situation. It really is my first time after all so I need to lie. "But being grown up around um...UN workers, I speak fluent English"

"Interesting," she says, "how are they doing at the UN? With the Ebola crisis and what not."

Oh great. Thanks for not filling me in with that Milo!

"I don't know. Top secret, I'm afraid. I am not allowed to know anything."

Shrugging, I pretend to look very knowledgeable on the matter but apologetic at the same time. So I probably look constipated.

"Ah." She sighs and nods understandably. "So can I get you anything?"

She gestures with her practically orange hand to the silver trolley she holds in the aisle.

"A black coffee, please."

I decide against my earlier judgement because what the heck? I could do with something to distract my busy mind. She pours me one out of a white plastic kettle and stirs in some very fake-looking coffee granules. She secures the plastic container with a lid and places it on a tray with a little tub of sugar cubes and a small bottle of milk to use if I feel it is necessary.

I hope Milo is supporting Dad. I hope they all are. Dad's always been very busy, but he had always found time to be with me. When Mum had to leave, he would let me sleep in his bed, read me an old Italian folktale his Mum used to read him, and proceed to hug me until I fell asleep and then lift me into my own bed.

Sighing and shaking my head, I take my hands through my dark brown hair, stopping occasionally to fiddle with one of the blue-highlighted sections. The color is bold, and Dad was not too keen on me adding it to my hair, but with Milo's persuasion, he grew to the idea.

Truly, I am staying at my Nan's. She also had to move to get away from my Dad's life. When Grandad died, she had no one to protect her, remaining vulnerable. So she, like me, had to change her identity (although unlike mine she legally changed it), and she now is supposedly living in a little house in a town called Browe. I've heard it isn't a country village, but it's very different to the sunny life I'm used to in Rome, Venice, Milan, Pisa...we used to stay all over. Although, our best house was in Venice. It was a beautiful house by the river with a white wood balcony and a little dock. It blended in with all the locals, although Dad never showed his face. However, I did. I spoke Italian fluently to them while I tested ice cream, sang gondola songs, and occasionally showed a few tourists around.

I haven't seen Nan in many years. She and Grandad used to live with us too, but she had to leave. They knew what she looked like and Dad couldn't protect her like Grandad. And everyone was scared of my Grandfather so they stayed clear of them both, but when Dad took over it was another story. But Dad proved he was able after many circumstances that struck fear in every Italian citizen's heart.

I close my eyes tightly and wish I was still there with Milo, Vince, Dad, Marco, Junior...all of them. They were like my family, especially after Mum left.

What is England going to have that Italy does? I've read it rains a lot, people drink tea, everyone complains and that the Queen hardly ever smiles, not even at her Grandson's wedding except for a slight curve of her lips. Sounds just brilliant.

I actually bother to read a magazine this time. I, careful not to rip it, hold the thin cover tight and skip to the safety messages near the back.

All illegal substances, cigarettes and other illegal items. E.g. guns are prohibited on this flight.

I've known how to shoot a gun since I was 10. Milo set up the targets for me in the basement of our temporary house in Pisa, and Dad was so impressed he took me to the local gelato shop to buy me my favorite mango gelato, a light orange desert with coconut shavings and a wafer. He wasn't quite so infamous in those days.

Bored out of my mind, I turn page after page, each page discussing a single subject such as fashion, beauty or what you can purchase on this flight.

Does anyone bother at these prices?

I smile at a little teddy bear holding an Italian flag in its paws. I'm reminded of Junior – his slicked-back, black hair and dark sunglasses, his creased forehead and crinkled eyes that shone a dark blue. When I was around eight, he gave me a little stuffed bear. I named it after him, and I used to take it everywhere. One of the guys called Marco, a sweet, little guy with thin eye brows and tight lips, was married to a young girl called Jennifer. Jennifer made a little suit for my teddy Junior, and we used to all sit by the piano while I did my lessons. The real Junior used to spend a lot of time looking out of the window, scowling. I never understood why until a few years ago.

"They're outside," he would whisper to my Dad.

Dad would nod sternly, then merge it into smile at me and say, "Beautiful playing, darling, but right now I think we're going to have another adventure in the basement!"

"Is Mummy coming too?"

"Yes, baby. Mummy is down there right now."

Dad never lied to me. Sure he carved his words carefully, but he never told me something very far from the truth. Mum was down there, but she refused to look at both of us. She did this a lot until one day, when we had to move for the fifth time, she disappeared.

She never said goodbye. Not even after she left.

I was 10 when she left us. Left us alone and confused as to why she never looked back and was gone like a bullet. Quick, painful and lethal to anyone that cared for her.

***

I wake with a start as my head suddenly hits the window. I rub it as it is still painful from the getaway, which seems like weeks ago when in reality was only a few hours ago.

I look out of window to see land. My stomach lurches with a mixture of fear and excitement. I wish Dad was here to see this. He always loved geography and was fascinated with how tiny everything really was on the globe in his office.

"Miss, please fasten your seatbelt, we are due to land very soon," the Barbie-doll like flight attendant says. The pilot repeats the same thing, and the lights in the cabin flicker off. I keep my eyes looking out the window as we descend.

We hit the ground with a bit of a bump. I clutch my chair anxiously and breathe steadily. There's no going back. They can't hurt me. I'm going to be okay. It's going to be okay.

I make my way off of the plane and into a long tube. I feel like everyone is watching me and every step feels like I am closer to someone finding me out, which is so stupid since nobody knows what 'The Clara Devoto' looks like.

I step into the airport, taking my first few reals steps in Britain but not in the real world. Instead, in an airport full of people all rushing about, some looking as dreadful as I feel inside. I walk through a signed gate with my bag on my back, and I make my way to the conveyer belt where bags are slowly being released.

I feel anxious. I feel like I have thousands of eyes piercing into my back and cameras peeking round each corner at me. My skin feels cold beneath my clothes, my forehead starts to sweat and my hands begin to shake. I breathe in and out as I walk towards baggage claim.

I watch a family walk together towards the moving platform. The dad, a man with thin hair, glasses and a freckly face, pushes a rather large, silver trolley stacked up like Jenga. He darts forward as a suitcase nearly topples to the floor. I sit on a chair, and I grip the sides of the white plastic, trying to calm down.

Come on, Clara. No one is watching you. Calm the fuck down. Everything is going to be fine. Dad's going to be okay.

I close my eyes tight, and I feel my bottom lip tremble. I force myself up and grip my bag carefully as I stride over the tiled floor. I spy my large black suitcase with the fluorescent, yellow strip wrapped around one of the handles, probably by Junior as he would make time to do something so over the top. I smile at the thought, making some of my anxiousness disappear. I lift up and groan at the weight as I start heaving it to the floor. I pull at the handle, and it extends into one that I can pull easier. I concentrate on the sound it makes as I cross the airport.

My eyes look anywhere and everywhere trying to take as much as I can in. It looks like any other airport: adverts passed everywhere, the odd air stewardess, restaurants, duty free shops, loads of tourists, large screens displaying flights and so many chairs...

I come to a halt and pull myself to one side so I can assess the situation a bit better. I breathe slowly in through my nose and out through my mouth as I rest against the fabric of my case.

Dad didn't mention how I would get to Grandma. I don't even know where she lives, but it's not like he had time to explain much because we could've been killed in seconds...

My theory is Dad didn't necessarily know when the enemy group was going to strike again, but he knew it would be soon so had the others pack up my things while I was helping at one of the bases with admin. Then Junior put it into Milo's car in advance, and when they struck, Dad nodded at Milo who ran to the car, and Dad personally escorted me to the basement for safety.

"Clara!"

I gasp at the sound of my name and whip round, terrified. I breathe a sigh of relief at the small, round woman frantically waving at me. A grin forms on my face as I meet her half way and give her a tight hug.

"Nonna!" I greet her in Italian. "I've missed you so much."

She pulls back to look at me and rests her slightly wrinkled hands on my cheeks with a warm smile. She examines my features carefully and sighs.

"Oh, Clara, you've grown up so much..."

She stops. Her smile falters when she twirls her finger through one of my blue highlights.

"Why did you do this to your gorgeous hair?"

I roll my eyes and smile at her with a shake of my head, causing the blue highlights to be free of her grip.

"Dad said it was okay."

She puts her hands on her hips with a stern and disapproving expression and gestures for me to follow her. Nothing's changed. She's still the same loving yet fairly bossy woman my Dad adored with all his being.

"Well he would, wouldn't he? Too busy to make small decisions I think."

I nod in response, deciding not to mention Milo's input to the hair and as we reach the glass doors I pause, savoring the moment as I step outside into the English air for the very first time.

"Clara, dear, I have a tiramisu to be made you know. I haven't got all day. Come along."

"You made tiramisu!" I exclaim, picking up my speed to follow her through the tightly-packed car park.

The cold bitter wind is very different to sunny Italy. I push my hair out of my eyes as my hair attacks my eyes with the force of the wind.

"Of course! I remembered how much you used to love it."

"It's Dad's favorite too."

I sigh sadly as I follow her to a teeny green car, which I presume is hers. I think back to when we used to sit together at the dining room table and eat it when I was little, and he didn't work as much.

She smiles and puts her hand on the small of my back, patting it gently as a few strands of her silvery grey hair blow in the breeze. She smiles reassuringly as I stare back at her with what I'm assuming are my fearful eyes.

"I know, sweet, and I know it's hard to leave in a situation like that with no preparation, but you will grow to love it in Browe, I promise."

I seriously doubt that Nonna.

(EDITED 01/06/17)