|02| No Regrets.

                                    

                                          
Saint
Sitting casually on my couch in my million-dollar penthouse in the middle of New York, with a killer view of the Empire State Building. „Daddy" didn't foot the bill; it's my own money earned by murdering. 
I'm wearing a black lace nightdress with thin fabric, showcasing a few of my tattoos.
I loved getting tattoos at almost every minor inconvenience. I got my first tattoo at the age of sixteen behind my parents' back. It's on my right rib cage, saying 'I regret nothing' in bold fonts. I got it because I regret nothing in life, not even the tattoo, despite my parents being furious and angry, screaming at me, telling me I ruined my clear, pure skin. So what if? Fuck it, we only live once. 
Consequences are temporary, memories are forever. 
After I turned eighteen, I had twenty-three more tattoos. A part of me got them just to show my parents that I really don't give a fuck about their rules or what they might think of me. I live for myself, not for them. 
I might be considered a shit daughter, but I am young and wild, and I wasn't going to let them take that away from me. Just because they are miserable with their life choices.
They were only my parents until one of us forgot. 
I head to my sleek, black, luxuriously designed kitchen and open a cabinet reserved for my selection of alcohol. Retrieving a bottle of red wine and a wine glass, I close the cabinet and place both on the kitchen island. 
With a satisfying pop, I open the bottle and pour the crimson liquid into the glass. Returning to the plush gray couch, I sit down with my knees up, lifting the glass to my lips and savoring the rich taste.
As I peacefully mind my own business, my thoughts wander back to that night a few months ago.
It took me two fucking months to recover back from everything that went down that night. Dealing with the many wounds on my body meant careful cleaning every day, feeling that sting as a reminder. Watching the colors change from ugly bruises to normal skin was a slow process. 
Emotionally, it cut deep, but as days passed, even those wounds started to fade. Recovery was a slow journey, like moving through time, but eventually, things got better.
I remember that night, walking to my apartment. My hands carried me down the hall, leaving blood marks on the walls. When I finally entered, I lay on my floor in total pain. It was an intensity I had never felt before, almost akin to the feeling of dying.
I haven't told anyone about all this. I simply mentioned successfully completing my job as I was sent to do. They don't need to know my weaknesses. I've been through tough times alone my whole fucking life.
I'll have to get a new car eventually since the one I had is now completely destroyed, thanks to that son of a bitch in the SUV. I'll do my research on him, and once I find him, I'll pay him a little visit. 
I'm considering getting the same black Ferrari Portofino that I had. That car held countless memories for me; I genuinely grew attached to it. From racing through the streets of New York to the reckless incident where I nearly hit my parents with it, I can't deny the enjoyment it brought.
I drank my glass of wine and set it on the glass coffee table. As I placed it down, my phone screen suddenly started to light up next to the couch where I'm sitting. I grab it with my hand, holding it right to my face as Elijah's message appears on the screen.
Elijah: Get dressed, I'll pick you up at 12 pm, beautiful.
Six feet three inches tall, with piercing green eyes, dirty blonde hair, and a smile that could melt any woman. Elijah Valenti. Our families introduced us to each other at a gathering, he has taken me out to clubs and fancy restaurants over the year since.