Emily and I

His luck had finally ended.
My father Jules Martone was a notorious gangster in London in the year 1993.
The London authorities believed that the streets of London were clean, that gang warfare no longer existed.
Because they were paid to believe that.
Jules Martone held a supermarket business that took over most of Great Britain, of course his business was booming and other gangs businesses were not.

Jealousy and greed was what got a British thug to act on his emotions.
In our large inconspicuous house in North London I sat on my fathers king size bed, looking through one of his older photograph albums, some of the photo's in the book I laughed at, our life had been nothing but smiles and games.
That's what I believed until I heard the doorbell ring at 3:00pm that evening.

My father hadn't had any trouble with neighboring gangs in the past, I was led to believe that no trouble of any kind would ever exist.
Until a suppressed pistol coughed three times and I heard my father's body fall to the floor.

My eyes lit up in surprise and I scuttled underneath the king size bed, under all of the boxes, where no one could see me. It was somewhere I went as a child, when father told me off after mother left. They had never got on well.
I heard the unfamiliar sound of boots on the nice clean stair carpet and I cowered underneath the bed.
I was seventeen years old and I cowered in my new suit which was getting a little crinkled.

I straightened my tie and unloosened my top button of the shirt I was wearing, in case I passed out.
I opened the top of a familiar cardboard box and took out my father's pistol. He had shown it to me as a young boy and told me never to touch it or I would be beaten.
Naturally I entered the room and played with the tool all of the time, I never used the gun with the bullets, I was too afraid. The gun was a Beretta M9 pistol, 9mm, it came from Italy, that's probably why my father loved it so.
My father came from Italy, Venice and my mother from Ireland, I think they met in London during an eclipse or something, I could never remember their cheesy stories.

The bedroom door opened, I silently slotted a magazine in the weapon and pulled back the chamber to check the bullet. I had never fired the pistol before. I heard the person stop and look around the room, satisfied with the inspection he shouted; "no, there isn't."
Dumb bloke.
My father was dead and I didn't feel at all sorry for him, he knew the risks of the gangs, he knew the lust and greed that existed in Britain and he let his guard down.

After about half an hour, I felt like I had been under there for a millennium. I had to come out, my legs were killing me. I shuffled out from under the bed and dusted down my suit.
I needed to find the only person I cared about.
Miss Emily Mars.