Grace Mort's mask has been removed

What was that?" I hissed as we distanced ourselves.

"Sorry, bro, I just don't like blondes. And this one's been stalking me for like two weeks."

I sighed, and we headed to the cashier. I had money for groceries – after all, I was the one in charge at home for now. Grace seemed quite content with his gummy candies. I wondered if the mafia could have attempted something by now. Only Mort had seen it for the first time. We got on my motorcycle and headed to my place. I promised the brunette that I would never mention this unpleasant incident again. Mort had shared a lot with me, and it was more interesting than anything I learned in class.

"By the way, can you cook?" he asked as we stopped near my house.

"Of course, I cook not only for myself but also for my sister."

"Sister? You have a sister?"

"Of course, just not as mean as yours."

Suddenly, the brunette grew more serious and said, "Don't say that. She had a tough childhood. First, her mother died, we didn't recognize her, she felt like an outsider, our father ignored her, others bullied her. That's how she became like that. I remember how she envied all the kids who had mothers."

"Didn't understand?" I was surprised. "Weren't you..."

"No, as I told you, I'm adopted from another mother. But you know, I understand the pain she felt. She was just a little girl then, all alone in the world. I know how that feels," Mort interrupted me, walking into the house. "And you know, I'm sure it's all because of our father. He taught her to kill. To channel all her strength and aggression towards those he deemed unnecessary in the world. Oh, this is interesting."

My house didn't look like a huge, wealthy mansion, but it intrigued Grace. He walked around, inspecting everything closely. There were six rooms, not counting the bathroom: mine, my sister's, my mother's, the living room, the kitchen, and the guest room. The house wasn't extravagant, but it was cozy. I could never imagine selling this place because it was my mother's home. My mom's favorite place.

We moved here when I was around 5-7 years old. I don't remember the details of how and why I ended up here. But I remember that after that incident, my mother cried for a long time. And one person disappeared from our lives. I couldn't remember who, and these strange feelings, pauses that couldn't form a complete picture. I was a child, understanding that something serious had happened. But I didn't ask. Sometimes, sitting by the radiator, my mom would tell my sister and me that when she was younger, she wanted our house to be covered in flowers. We were young, not understanding the significance, we made paper flowers and started plastering everything from the floor to the ceiling. But as I grew older, I realized my mom wanted to adorn our house with various flowers she loved.

The mafia boss's son brought in bags of groceries and collapsed on the couch. Suddenly, he yelled into a pillow, making me jump. Watching the spectacle of Mort preparing to climb onto the couch, I chuckled and entered the kitchen. I started arranging pots and pans on the stove. As I chopped onions, my friend entered the kitchen. Grace yawned, sat on a stool, and asked,

"How old is your sister?"

"16."

"Demy's 17. Wow, my evil surpasses hers by a couple of months."

"You're not like your sister. You're much kinder," I said and sprinkled the chopped onion onto the heated pan. The hot oil sizzled and jumped.

"Kind, you say?" he muttered. Did he seem offended? Calling him kind was an insult?

"In the mafia, no one is kind. Everyone has done something that's horrifying."

"And what about you?" I inquired.

"Well... I... I'll be honest, when I was little, like 1-3 years old, I was very attached. You know, a child. So that I wouldn't lose Margo – Demy's mom – our father hid us all over London. They introduced me as some alcoholic who couldn't properly take care of me. When I turned 5-6, my psyche was so shattered that I killed him. And then, one of the hitwomen took me away. I still remember her name... Dorothy Walfer," he said, relishing the name. "She raised me at her place for a couple of years and then, on our father's orders, brought me to the estate. She was the first person I got used to and loved, thought she was my mother. But soon, my father killed her, afraid she might spill something about me. You see, she was quite the talker. That's when the desire to... kill him was born in me. Isn't it funny?" he asked, smiling and looking at a glass of water.

I shivered and turned away.

"I know, it sounds like I'm a psycho. But even with my psyche shattered by my father, I still hold on and act like a normal person. Ah, I remember how I kept killing, trying to match him. Oh, it was so entertaining," Grace said as if it were a normal topic. "But then, I realized it wasn't right. And my dear little sister took my place."

"Killing and torturing, that's the mafia's style," I said and turned back to the stove. A shiver ran down my spine. What? Everything was so fine just now! I slowly turned around and saw Mort aiming a gun at me. I felt a chill as I realized he had shifted the trigger, and it looked like he was about to fire. "You won't do this."

"Why not? Shouldn't have trusted the mafia, huh? Shouldn't have brought me to your lair? I'm the son of the mafia, did you forget?"

"And so what?" I angrily exclaimed. "Are we friends or what? Have you forgotten the meaning of that word? Oh, right, it's the Great Grace Mort, he can change friends like clothes."

To someone, anyone, Mort might have appeared unaffected, but he reacted. He put away the gun and said, "Okay, sorry, it was just a joke... I wanted to hear that. I was testing you. Jokes... just jokes."

"Very funny joke," I said sarcastically.

"Come on, don't be mad!" he shouted. "And by the way, not everyone is like this mafia style. Chris, for instance, doesn't like anything criminal."

"Who?"

"Chris, older, half-brother," Grace clarified. "He's not directly involved in the family business. He prefers to stay away from all this."

I nodded and focused on cooking. Grace seemed to have calmed down, but there was still tension in the air.

As the aroma of cooking filled the kitchen, Grace leaned against the counter. "You know, despite all the craziness, I envy you a bit."

I glanced at him, surprised. "Envy me? Why?"

"You have a normal life. A sister, a home, cooking dinner. It's... something I never really had."

I stirred the food in the pan, absorbing his words. "Grace, you can have a different life too. You don't have to be defined by your family's history."

He sighed, looking out the window. "It's not that simple. I'm trapped in this world, in my family's expectations. But enough about me. What about you? How did you end up taking care of your sister?"

I put down the spatula and leaned against the counter, meeting his gaze. "After our mom passed away, it was just the two of us. Our father wasn't around much. I had to step up and be there for my sister, be her protector."

Grace nodded, seeming to understand. "You're a good brother."

"I try to be," I said with a small smile.

He looked at me for a moment, his gaze intense. "You know, you're a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for. Not everyone can handle the way you do."

I felt a warmth in my chest, an unexpected sense of validation from someone I least expected. "Thanks, Grace."

He smirked. "Don't mention it. Let's just not bring up that blonde incident again, okay?"

We both chuckled, the tension from earlier dissipating. Cooking together, sharing stories – it was an odd bonding experience, but it was helping me see another side of Grace Mort, beyond the mafia persona.

As we finished cooking and set the table, I couldn't help but think about the complexities of his life. Despite his upbringing, there was still a part of him that wanted more, that questioned the path he was on.

"Hey, Grace," I said as we sat down to eat. "Maybe there's a way for you to find your own path. To break free from the expectations and create a life that's truly yours."

He looked at me thoughtfully. "And what if I want to change, but I don't even know where to start?"

I smiled reassuringly. "Starting is the hardest part. But you've already taken a step by opening up and sharing your story."

Grace nodded slowly, and for a moment, his tough exterior seemed to soften. "Yeah, maybe you're right."

We continued our meal, talking about lighter topics, sharing laughs, and even making plans to hang out again.