What's home, if not the first place you run away from? What's love, if not that unexplainable, blazing feeling which comes after a period of hate?
Reputable for her catchy appearance, her over-niceness, her obsession with cartoon animations and her...
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Charlie Puth - Loser.
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TRADE RESPECT FOR FEAR, reward loyalty with friendship and disrespect with violence.
Respect and fear are words I've grown accustomed to over the years. I prefer the latter, because it yields more loyalty than the former.
Loyalty. A necessary, fundamental attribute in the genetic make-up of man.
The only reasons I'm still breathing even after leaving are these: I'm a wealthy businessman with roots in the underground world, and I haven't snitched. I might not be the most loyal man on Earth, but I'm no fucking rat.
I left because I wanted to be free from that tainted reputation that would affect my business, my family and give me endless issues with the FEDs; not because I wanted to enter witness protection programs and all that shit.
Sometimes however, I can't help but wonder if I'm only prolonging the inevitable of my death...or of my going back.
I always suspected that one day, the consequences of my actions would come knocking on my door with threats and AK-47s, but that hasn't happened for eleven years now. So if I'm not dead yet, and the only way of total escape from the clutches of the Mafia is death—one doesn't leave until he's six feet under—does that mean that I never left in the first place?
I mean, I am still Draco Ash's son, no matter what.
I'm a dangerous man, I have allies and enemies alike in dangerous places, and I know that I'm very far from being on the right side of the law. Leaving all those years ago to become a full-time businessman did nothing to suppress the darkness in me and the thrill I get from being a little violent.
Violence.
If loyalty is rewarded with friendship, automatically, disloyalty is rewarded with enmity. I have been disloyal a few times, and as a result, I have a shit ton of enemies.
But it's popular fact about me that anybody—anybody at all, whether friend or foe—who disrespects me, gets what's coming to them...they get what they deserve, with no speck of regret on my end.
These days however, all I feel is regret.
Fuck.
I regret everything that happened that day at my office. I regret ripping her dress, I regret bringing up and insulting her family, I regret getting violent with her...Cristo, I regret letting her disrespectful words about Taylor get to me enough to pull out such impulsiveness.
I regretted it so much so that immediately I left my office, I drove straight to a shady club downtown, got into a boxing match with a few men and let said few men beat the hell out of me.
