.000.

A Picture of Two

.

"Êtes-vous mon grand-père?"

He takes in the dark, reddish hair, the delicate, oval face, the oddly slanted eyes, and the thin, long, slightly upturned nose, and there is only one thought in his head: Elayne.

But this little girl is not Elayne Santino née Biers, his darling

(dead)

daughter-in-law. She is Robin Santino, her daughter, his granddaughter, who is standing right in front of him, waiting patiently for him to speak. She stands there, dwarfed and rendered waif-like by the sombre frock she wore and the black marble that tile the corridor, and he notes the frilly black bow sitting on top of her head.

The girl stares at him solemnly, watching him with

(light green)

cobalt blue eyes as she absently gnaws on a

(scarlet)

russet braid.

Dismayed at his silence, she tilts her head to one side and furrows her auburn eyebrows in consternation. "Siete il mio nonno?" she tries again. The words, this time, are hesitant.

Snow-white brows rise in astonishment—she must be no more than six—and then his wrinkled, weathered face creases with pleasure. Slowly, he reaches towards her and gently clasps her tiny, dainty hands with his own wrinkled ones. "Sì, sono. E siete il mio grande-figlia, Robin?"

At this she beams at him a wide, relieved grin that promised much joy, mischief, and laughter, and the uncanny resemblance between mother and daughter could not be more blatant.

Between the two of them—tall, elderly grandfather, dignified in black and hand in hand with his small, oddly pretty granddaughter—they make a beautiful picture, a moment of innocence that was never to occur again.

For upon the moment she was accepted by this old, kindly looking man, her childhood had come to an end.


They say...

... she was born with a gun in her hand, and probably shot at the first person she saw.

They say...

... her mother slept with a contract killer; she's too cold to be the daughter of her kind, compassionate father.

They say...

... she's killed nine soldiers, two capos, and a don before her eighteenth birthday.

It's said...

... that she's the living copy of her late mother, and breaks a mirror every time she sees her reflection in one.

After all...

She's a mobster's granddaughter, and blood tells.


04.24.08

A/N: I can't even begin to apologize my year-long absence, and I'm really, really sorry. I'm not trying to make excuses, but it's pretty hard, trying to get one's thoughts down on paper while being plagued with tests, homework, and Asian parents nagging on and on and on about getting better grades and joining better clubs, as well as the numerous plot bunnies that keep digging holes in my brain and cramming it with even more plotbunnies. Needless to say, it's becoming very hard for me to concentrate on the stories I'm already working on, since I've got about three other ideas on hold. Sorry sorry sorry.

Also, I would also like to excuse this one's briefness. It's short, but then again it's a prologue. Yeah, you heard me. A prologue. Yes, I've started another one. Oops.

Anyways, I'd like to thank those who've added/kept me on their Alert and have left reviews, even though it's apparent that I've been gone for a very long time and I don't expect to pick up where I've left off any time soon. Thank you thank you thank you.