Even my nights were identical. I suffered the same dream about a wolf. A female wolf whose fur was so white, the color was almost iridescent, stepped out of the shadows of my subconscious.
The dream started the same. The most beautiful, long, lithe wolf appeared, slowly at first, with ears flattened and eyes flickering around. She locked her gaze on me, then sprinted at me. She stopped within six inches, the details of every raised hair up close in definition. She tucked her tail, flattened her ears, and slunk back into the shadows. When I thought she was gone, my name flowed out of the darkness.
"Zira..."
Then I woke up, drenched in sweat, forehead pounding, breathless and panting worse than my hardest exercise regimen.
Every time.
My boring-ass life involved eating, sleeping through a wolf dream, homeschooling, exercising, and shooting lessons... because what seventeen-year-old girl didn't need to disassemble and reassemble a mag?
The house having a built-in shooting range and active shooter simulator only fed my belief that he was a mafia kingpin. All of this was preparation for me to join this mysterious, discreet, underground life.
Whether I liked it or not.
I assumed most looked forward to turning eighteen, becoming "legal aged," released from their parents' care and capable of exercising responsibility for their lives.
Not me.
My eighteenth birthday was a death sentence. Although one had to live first in order to die. So mine was a metaphorical death.
"Everything will change," were the only words my father shared with me. I dreaded how time slipped away and my eighteenth birthday approached and I took my rightful place in my father's mafia. His true family, the drug cartel.
Maybe they'd even give me a street name. Maybe my dream was telling me I should be White Wolf. My skin is pasty enough to pull that off.
"Good morning, Miss Zira." My nurse Anna's mouth pulled to one side at the sight of today's makeup experiment.
In translation, my name was "princess." My brother was supposed to be a king, take over the family business, and I serve a support role. In my mind's scenarios, my father arranged a marriage for me once I turned eighteen, pacifying relationships with a competing cartel.
I don't want a thug life. I'm not property to be used in a bartering relationship. I don't want to kill people, torture them, and reap millions while flooding people's bodies with drugs.
I knew what mafia life meant through YouTube videos and stories I read on Dreame, none of which seemed glamorous.
"Hi, Anna." I averted my eyes to her pristine, tapping white shoe. "You don't like it?"
"Your father would never approve." As usual, she spoke in a monotone voice and extended a makeup wipe at my face.
With curled, pale fingers, I took the cloth, gave one last glance to my dark purple experimentation and deep contouring lines, then wiped away their existence.
"How are you feeling today?" In a series of clicks, she prepped a tray of three syringes, my daily blood draw and insulin injections. Extremely thin and forced on a healthy diet, I had type I diabetes.
Perhaps the medicine was necessary from my obsession with chocolate donuts.
I shouldn't eat them, but can't help how I feel. We're involved, as my secret affair.
"Fine," I replied in the same monotone voice expected in every response. My words didn't matter, since her subsequent questions were always the same.
"And your bracelets?" Her eyes shifted lower and inspected the two silver metal bands encircling my wrists. They were half an inch thick, two inches wide, and custom made to fit at the base of my wrists. Per my father's instructions, they were refitted every three months since I was thirteen.
"Fine." Tightness gripped my curt response, evidence that the question was a sore point in our limited conversations. The "bracelets" were my father putting shackles on me.
As she approached, my eyes diverted to the syringes' Viakios label. My father's manufacturing company name gleamed in dark blue over clear glass. Our last name. The family name.
What a freaking curse.
"Left or right?"
I extended my left arm, the inner part of my elbow exposed. Tiny bumps and scars dotted the area, wrought with scar tissue.
"Tight fist."
Upon command, my fingers curled into my palm and my nails sank into the soft flesh. She bound above my elbow with a tight rubber cord and knotted the band. The cord bit into my skin as she pulled my wrist closer, rapping the pads of her fingers into my veins. After one popped and throbbed under the scar tissue, she washed the area with an alcohol pad. My nose twitched in response to the smell, so familiar I recognized it in my sleep.
She smiled and gently pressed a syringe into my vein, withdrawing four vials of blood. In fluid movements, she released a few drops onto an insulin test sheet and set the tray aside.
"Let go, Zira." I released my fingers. "Tape or Band-Aid?"
"Tape, please." The Band-Aids never stayed in place during my morning workouts. She folded over a piece of gauze, pressed down firmly, then taped over the puncture spot. We weren't finished though.
She skimmed a glance over the test strip reading and ghosted a smile. "Left or right?"
"Left," I mumbled.
Daily injections were painful, so I alternated sides. I stood up and rolled down the top of my pants, one embarrassing flash of skin at a time.
So embarrassing.
The skin two inches from my navel cooled with dampness as she ran an alcohol pad over the left side of my belly. I frowned at the light brown and green bruises from previous injections that spotted the sensitive area.
Anna picked up the smaller syringe, pressed gently to remove the air, pinched an inch of my belly, then administered the medication subcutaneously. My nose wrinkled at the bee sting chaser and nails sunk deep into the soft tissue on my right palm.
"Last one. Left or right?"
I'd think she'd know by now.
"Left." I turned around, faced away from her, and slid my pants further down. At this point, I stood in my underwear, my cheek exposed to her.
Why can't I be trusted to do this myself? Ugh.
Anna rubbed a third alcohol pad on the upper quadrant of my left buttcheek, gripping my skin tight in her hand. Expelling a few liquid drops from the larger syringe, she administered the shot with a quick plunge of the two-inch needle into my gluteal muscle.
My lips parted and a soft gasp escaped between them as the initial pain darted into my skin. Despite repeating this daily process for the past three years, I never got used to this routine. After Anna withdrew the needle, she massaged the area with her fingers, then gave my outer leg a gentle tap.
Again, so embarrassing.
My cheeks burned as I pulled up my pants, taking care over the throbbing areas.
Sadly, other than developing more rambling princess mafia conspiracy theories, this medical exchange with Anna was all I had during the day. Anna was my sole daily interaction, other than my tutors or personal trainer.
Ordinarily, this was the end of our riveting conversations. However, not today.
"Excellent news, Miss Zira." Her grey eyes twinkled as she tapped a fingernail against the empty syringe. "Today is the last day of these."
"What?" I blinked at her as one palm rubbed the soreness on my left buttcheek.
I'm no doctor, but type I diabetes doesn't... go away... does it?
I made a mental note to fact-check this information on WebMD later, even if searching most likely told me that I had cancer.
"I'm not supposed to say anything, but your father will explain at dinner tonight." She winked. "So keep it our secret."
My wide eyes studied her stoic reaction, as I wondered who she expected I'd share this news with.
"Ahem, Miss Zira." A heavy knock at the door preceded one of my father's security escorts. "Your trainer is waiting."
"Five minutes," I called back. My "conversation," which yielded no tangible information, with Miss Anna left me behind schedule.
As a few choice curse words escaped my lips at my tardiness, I slipped on my workout clothes. Seven days a week, I rotated through cardio and strength training. Today was strength, which I remembered how much I hated as my feet hurried down to the gym.
"You're late, princess." My trainer Damien frowned at me upon sight, two meaty arms already crossed over his broad chest.