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Love is a risk; sometimes, a risk that is not worth taking.
    You still loved the foul-mouthed Italian named Luciano. He would call you “fiore di notte” which meant “night flower” in his mother language. The reason? Because you two had met under the moon and that was where he confessed his love for you, which he struggled with.
    “Fiore di notte,” a suave voice cooed, coming from behind the door of your bedroom. Currently, you were laying on your scarlet bed, staring up at the white ceiling, darkened by the atmosphere engulfing this room. The walls were scarlet, the colour of blood. The curtains, coloured black, were drawn blocking the dying sunlight. It was a small room, all in all, only consisting of a bed, desk, wardrobe bare except for your small stock of clothes, and a small table beside your bed.
    You curled up into a ball, trying to make yourself smaller. You were only dressed in a long sleeved (favourite colour) and black pants to cover your scars.
    You loved him so dearly.
    “I have some pasta for you,” the voice called again belonging to the Italian from behind the door. You could taste the bile rise to your mouth. You forced it down as your face contorted with disgust.
    ...Despite the things he has done to you.
    You curled up tighter into a ball, willing your face to go blank. The door creaked open as a form stepped in, carrying a plate with pasta, topped off with a peculiar sauce, piled on top of it. A free hand reached out and flicked on the lights, instantly blinding you. Blinking, you raised your head to get a good look at him. He was currently dressed in a black dress shirt, a few buttons undone allowing you to see a well-toned chest, black pants, and his black military boots.
    This love itself was a risk.
    “Eat, Fiore,” he ordered, walking towards the bed, plate in hand. You slowly uncurled yourself and sat up, trying not to provoke any unwanted nausea and dizziness. He scrutinized you, his magenta eyes unreadable. As soon as you straightened your aching back, he shoved the plate in front of your face. You took it, hands shaking slightly as you tried to suppress it. You began eating it with a silver fork, ignoring the metallic tang that you knew was blood. But whose blood was it this time? It couldn’t be your now dead ex-boyfriend.. Perhaps a friend? Or your family?
    Clearing your mind of those thoughts before you threw what you just ate up, you finished the last bite and lifted your eyes to meet those of the now impatient Italian in front of you.
    “G-grazie, Luci,” you said, offering the plate to him. he nodded, satisfied that you ate the pasta and pronounced the word right.
    You could lose your life in any minute, and each breath might be your last.
    “Bella,” he cooed, taking the plate and setting it down on the night table. He crawled onto the bed, practically pinning you down onto the bed. His arms positioned themselves so that you couldn’t move. He hungrily captured your lips, forcefully pushing his tongue into your mouth. A few seconds in, you felt something sharp slide across your throat, drawing blood and slicing your precious windpipe. He pulled back and smirked deviously.
    “Good night, mio prezioso fiore di notte,” he cooed, watching as you grabbed your throat in a futile attempt to soothe the searing hot pain that engulfed your whole being. You struggled to breathe, only making strangled noises.
    “T-t-ti… am-m-mo… L-Luc-ci…” With one last strangled noise, your body went limp. Luciano only smiled, gently closing your now lifeless eyes and rising from his spot. He looked towards the door, where his blonde haired brother stood.
    “You know, I could never understand why you stand the bloody mess you always seem to create, fratello,” he stated, not flinching from Luciano’s cold, hard stare.
    “Clean it up,” the foul-mouthed Italian ordered, marching out the room.
  But to you, it was a risk worth taking.