Borgata - Book II #wattys2016

Chapter 15: Ian Somerhalder

   Momma is here, pirates!! <3

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"I would let Fico tie me up and take me to his secret place xoxo," chrisrocks247 said, when asked what to say at the beginning of this chapter.

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 "You probably think I'm an awful person," Gasparro said, leaning away from his half-eaten bowl of pasta and pushing his plate away. "And I have to be honest with you, darling, I am an awful person. I've killed, stole, lied, cheated, and fücked my way to where I am today." He sipped his wine. "I'm a total àsshole, really."

At that, Gasparro gracefully stood up. I tensed as he walked behind my chair, brushing his hands on the back of it. He pulled up his slacks and squatted down next to me, drilling his eyes into me.

"But in the grand scheme of it all," he said lowly, "don't we all have the capability of doing these things? Don't we all crave more than we are initially given in life? Sex. Money. Companionship. Power. Love. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Don't we all feel like we deserve more in a world, where things are always taken away from us? Are you really much better than I am?"

"You see, deep down," Gasparro continued, still crouching next to my chair, "we all feel the absence of these things. Sex. Money. Companionship. Power. Love. And they dig at us, and they plague us, until some of us listen to that whisper over our shoulder. The whisper that says, 'Take it'. Take what you want because it's there, because it's there for the taking, because you have the ability to have whatever you want in this world if you just take it. It's right there. It's all right there. Anything you want, you can have. You just have to have to be smart about it. You have to be clever and you have to erase the prejudice line between right and wrong, and make your own right and wrong."

"You, Samantha, can perceive the world like this. Like I do. I see it in your eyes. You're a survivor. You're the last one standing. You know that you're scr3wed right now, but let me tell you something; you can walk out of here alive today. I know that's not a lot coming from me. Me: a man who you perceive as the bad guy. But I have news for you"–he pointed across the table at Fico, drawing my attention back to the beaten up man across from me–"he's not the good guy either. So my word might be shît to you, but if you already have the mindset that you're going to die today, maybe your best option is to at least take what I just said with a grain of salt."

Gasparro reached into the lapel of his suit and took out a series of photos.

He hid them all of them from me except for one, which he placed on the table in front of me.

I had to analyze the photo for a moment, before I realized who it was. It was a photograph of Fico in a prison uniform. He looked a handful of years younger, maybe around my age, actually. And I knew this first by the faint softness and underdevelopment in his face, the lack of facial hair on his jaw, and the way his big silver eyes swallowed up the photo. They had yet to harden into the cruel gaze I was more familiar with. His normally gelled back his obsidian black hair was longer and fell in curls over his forehead. Physique wise, current Fico could easily bench-press his younger self.

Gasparro placed another photo in front of me, next to the first one. It was a more recent photo of Fico. He was walking out of a cellphone to his ear, and was about to put on a pair of dark aviators.