Page 83 of Mila: The Godfather

But I started believing in a bigger presence. A being of light and all that is good because how the fuck could I not? When someone like Mila exists in this world. Someone so pure and so good to her core.

Not tainted by the harsh cruelty of the world.

Someone who smiles despite the many challenges she faces every day, not only because of her disability but also the life she was born into. One of chaos and carnage for the sake of power and money.

“You like butterflies, too?” she says, smiling at a butterfly that landed on her shoulder.

Another butterfly nears her and lands on top of her head, making Mila laugh, which, in turn, makes me smile. “I do.”

Do I like butterflies? Not particularly. I don’t hate them, but they’re just bugs to me. Bugs both my mother and her enjoy watching and learning about, so I became interested in finding out all there was about them because she likes them. A lot.

I also enjoy the look on her face every time she finds out we share something in common.

So yes, if I must learn every fucking name of every butterfly in existence just to watch her smile. I will.

Hell, I did.

Mila remains quiet for a moment, then she slowly turns her head my way and offers me a soft smile over her shoulder before going back to looking around. I watch quietly as she does, contemptuous to just stand back and watch the world through her eyes.

Because that’s what I’ve been doing lately.

Watching the world through Mila Parisis eyes, and let me tell you, it’s a fucking beautiful world.

How she sees it.

Before, I only saw ugly, but now? Because of her? I got glimpses of what I was missing before she came along.

Magic. Fucking magic.

And that’s the main reason why I took it upon myself to insert myself in her life however I could.

Bain.

Carlotta, her very kind caretaker, and very much like Bain, my employee.

And the emails.

It wasn’t enough that I had a man and Carlotta with her, but I went ahead and wrote her letters under the guise of fucking pen pals. I needed to know more about her. I wanted to learn for myself the things she didn’t share with anyone else.

It all started so innocently and easily, until it wasn’t.

Until she went from a curious young girl who reminded me of my mother. A girl I only wished to keep safe and for her to not feel so fucking lonely in that house of horror, and then she grew up and the lines started blurring.

That’s when the letters stopped.

I backed away, and it only served to fuck with my head more.

Because I found myself missing her.

Her stories.

Her words.

Just her.

Her essence.

And now she is here.

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