Hello everyone *waves*. Sorry for the lack of updates, but I'm actually writing this on my lj now instead. I'm already on chapter 35 on there, so that should keep you busy! My journal is drdeath_defying.

Frank's POV

Her black-brown hair tumbled in loose curls around her bright, heart-shaped face. Hazel eyes so similar to my own sparkled back at me through the glass of the picture frame.

I stared back at my mother, ignoring the misting of tears clouding my vision. I sniffed and scrubbed my eyes roughly with my jacket sleeve.

I stroked a loving finger across the picture, wiping off a stray tear. What I'd give to have my mother here now.

'What would you think, Mom?' I whispered to the empty room, 'Would you be proud?'

I sincerely doubted it. The life I was living - correction: the life I'd been forced to live - was hardly one a mother would wish on her son. It was one an overbearing, controlling father would wish on his son. I knew from experience.

Suddenly, there was a loud banging against the door. I jerked and the frame slipped from my fingers and shattered against the floor.

'Fuck!' I exclaimed, dropping to my knees on the floor and scrabbling to pick up the pieces of glass now scattered across the dark wood.

'What you doing?' sneered one of my father's men from the doorway.

So that banging had been his thick fists. I sighed inwardly; would these men ever grow out of the Neanderthal phase? Considering their occupation, I suppose it was unlikely. My father didn't hire his lackeys for their smarts, after all.

'What do you want?' I snarled back, scooping the glass into my palm.

'Woah, calm it Little Iero.' he condescended me.

I glared at him over my shoulder, but it didn't seem to affect him. To be fair, the guy was practically seven foot and I was...shorter than that - I could hardly threaten him. It just bugged me how many double-standards there were in this house: my father's minions would only condescend me when Father was not around, otherwise I was 'Sir'.

When I didn't reply, the guy got to the point.

'The boss wants to see you in his office.' he explained gruffly, leaning against the door frame casually.

I felt a strange possessiveness flood through my veins seeing him standing there, like he owned the place. This was my room, this was my Father's house, and he should damn-well remember that.

Unfortunately, I was just the 'Daddy's boy' around here, which apparently meant zero respect unless

'Daddy' was actually in the room.

I nodded vaguely at the guy, implying that I'd go soon.

'He wants to see you, now.' The guy insisted, folding his thick arms across his chest.

'I'll be there.' I replied, and glared at him until he huffed, shrugged and disappeared out the door, slamming it as he went.

I growled under my breath. I hated this place, I hated how everything was just swept under the rug, how everyone was stabbing at least one other person in the back - occasionally literally. This place was fucking insane, and I seemed to be the only one who could see it.

I tightened my fists angrily - and instantly regretted it. I hissed as about a thousand pieces of glass sliced through my skin, pain slicing through my hand.

'Fuck!' I ground out, grinding my teeth together.

I stood shakily and stumbled to the bathroom, not yet opening my fist. I slapped the wall blindly until I found the light switch, flicking it on and leaning against the sink.

I turned on the cold tap and opened my hand, letting the glass shower down into the basin, a swirl of blood flowing down the plug after it.

Groan, I hated blood. I wasn't squeamish or anything, but I'd still rather not be able to see something that should clearly be on the inside on the outside. Finally, after a few seconds, I looked away from the sink - blaming the dizziness I was feeling on the blood loss and not on my dislike of blood.

Unfortunately the only other thing in front of me was a mirror. As I rinsed the blood off my palm, I glared at my reflection.

You see, it doesn't matter who you are or who your parents are, if you're a teenager and you look in the mirror, you ain't gonna like what you see.

Right now, all I could see was a pathetically pale, gaunt-looking kid with empty eyes and hair a shade or two too dark for his complexion. Believe it or not, that hair was the only thing about me that I didn't totally despise. Because it wasn't really me - it was the only part of me I had any control over.

Obviously, it was dyed and when you live in the headquarters of a notoriously violent mob gang, that's fucking hard to get away with.

You see, my father wasn't exactly tolerant of any...experiments with looks. To the point where, when one of his men found a pack of DIY hair dye in my bathroom a few years previously, my father had given me a black eye that didn't fade for two weeks. I hadn't stopped dying it after that - my little bit of rebellion, you know? - on the hopes that my father would be forced to ignore the fact that my hair hadn't seen it's natural colour for weeks or face humiliation by admitting to his men that I'd rebelled against him. My father - never one for humiliation - had played right into my plan, and so my hair had remained black for years.

Eventually I knew my eyes would focus on that part of my neck, on that splash of black ink etched into the skin of my neck. I tried to avoid it, looking anywhere but at it, but it was impossible to ignore. Sighing, I gave in and stared.

Below my right ear, just under the line of my hair so it was always visible, the scorpion curled in on itself, its stinger held above its head and ready to strike. On the surface a pretty cool tattoo, but not when you realised that I shared it with every other person in this house. A gang tattoo, one every member of my father's gang was forced to own. Even if they never chose to join, even if they were just unfortunate enough to have been born into the bloodline.

I'd had the tattoo for nearly five years now, since the day after my thirteenth birthday. Yeah, a little early for skin mutilation I suppose - but you try telling that to a seven-foot tall hard-man with a tattoo needle.

Scrunching up my right shoulder so I couldn't see the tattoo, I glanced back down at my hand. I wrinkled my nose in disgust at the red spots splattering the sink and stuck my hand under the tap to distract myself. I gasped as the cold water seeped into the thousands of tiny cuts lining my palm, the urge to yank my hand back. I knew there would be some glass stuck under the skin that I'd need to get out, but I also knew that my father was waiting for me downstairs, and leaving him waiting could end up more painful than any glass cut.

Substituting actual medical attention for wrapping a piece of tissue around my hand, I shut off the tap and shuffled back to the bedroom. I picked my way carefully across the floor so I didn't end up with fucked up feet along with the hands.

I perched on the edge of the bed, pressing the tissue gently into my palm to stop the bleeding. I grimaced at the blood stains spattering the sleeve of my shirt, deciding to roll it up rather than actually changing the shirt. I tugged on my tie - black and thin, standard gang issue - to loosen it a little, because, really, there was no one I was trying to impress right now. If I had been following the strict uniform laws of the house correctly, I'd have been wearing my suit jacket and loafers, not my much preferred red Converse as I usually did. But come on, I was in my own room. If I couldn't relax here, where could I?

Not that this place was overly relaxing. With dark red walls and mahogany floor boards, this room was so dark it was actually pretty morbid. Morbid can be cool, if you're talking black carpets and band posters, but not like this. The room was just so...empty. It wasn't like my bedroom, it was like a guest room, and I'd felt out of place in it since birth.

I wasn't allowed to add personal touches to it, nor was I allowed to play any music. I was lucky to have an iPod, even if Father had made sure that all it contained was classical music. Classical music was 'more conducive to a productive atmosphere' Father said. I know right, total bullshit.

When the flow of blood had slowed enough, I dug around under my bed for my shoes and slipped them on my feet. Running my good hand through my hair, I stood shakily and walked to the door.

I opened it and stepped out into the hall, nodding at the guard standing across the hall from me. Yeah, that's right, my room was guarded. Never been quite sure if that was to keep me safe, or to keep me trapped. It wasn't something I was going to ask my father, was it?

During some of my more paranoid moments, I'd been sort of worried that those guys...took their jobs too seriously. You know, like watching me in my sleep or something. My biggest nightmare was waking up with one of them looming over my bed.

Suppressing a shiver, I shuffled off down the corridor and down the stairs.

Father's office was on the ground floor of the gang's three-storey mansion. No broken down warehouses for these boys, oh no, only the best for them. The rest of the house was decorated mostly the same as my room, all deep reds and mahogany.

On the way down the enormous staircase, I passed at least seven men, all either heading upstairs or guarding doorways. Even I didn't know what was behind most of those doors, and I'd been living here since I was born. Probably didn't want to know, to be honest.

When I reached Father's office, its door – enormous, dark and foreboding even to those who didn't know about the man sitting behind it – was flanked on either side by two of his best guards. Both built like brick walls and about as smart as one. I nodded to them both and the one on the left leaned over to open the door for me.

'The Boss'll see you now.' he grunted.

No shit, why else would you have opened the door? I didn't say, instead nodding again and stepping past him into the room.

'Thank you, Marcus.' Father called from behind his desk and the guard, Marcus, pulled the door closed behind me.

The snick! of the catch settling in its frame sound sort of final to me, like the sound of someone flicking the safety off on their gun before they end your life. It wasn't that I thought Father had called me here to kill me – though it wasn't something I'd rule out for him – he just made me nervous. Hey, when your father takes up a living that involves kidnapping and murder, you get to judge me. Until then, shut your trap.

He didn't look up, his head bent over a stack of papers. A hit list, the names of my father's many employees, hell it could be his fucking grocery list for all I knew.

His silence irked me, but mostly because I knew it for the technique it was. Father had learned that to gain the upper hand, the enemy must be afraid of you. Nothing scares a person more than pure silence. The bit that really got to me though, was the fact that it worked. Every fucking time.

I fought the urge to stuff my hands into my pockets or to scuff my feet against the floor. My nerves were rocketing up every second he kept me waiting, I wasn't sure how long I'd last before I broke down. I felt like I needed to apologise, to drop to my knees and beg for forgiveness, but I wasn't sure that I'd actually done anything wrong.

As I went over the last week in my head for the hundredth-thousandth time, dissecting every moment for some sort of disobedience, Father spoke.

'Sit down, Frank.' He ordered, gesturing to the armchairs in front of his desk.

I gulped and obeyed immediately, dropping myself into one and shuffling back until my back reached the soft leather. As Father looked up from his papers and at me, I could see him assessing me with his eyes. I leant back further into the chair, hoping it would somehow sprout a mouth and swallow me whole.

What did my father see, I wondered, when he looked at me? There wasn't any pride in those cold, dark eyes – there wasn't anything. My father wasn't one for showing emotion, after all. I wished I could see inside that mind, see why my father did what he did. Why he expected me to follow in his footsteps when this life clearly wasn't for me.

'How are you, son?' he eventually asked, his tone both coldly casual and terrifyingly judging.

I felt like my answer meant something, like the wrong answer could mean something really bad for me, which is why what came out of my mouth next was hardly good enough.

'I – I'm fine, sir.' I mumbled, mentally slapping myself on the forehead.

Don't stare at the floor, I reminded myself, and for fuck's sake stop wringing your hands!

Really, it was pretty pathetic that this man still had this effect on me. I was eighteen, I'd had eighteen years to get used to his brutality, why wasn't I used to it by now?

Because he could beat the shit out of me any time he wanted, and no one would stop him. Hell, they'd help.

Father hummed and nodded slowly, leaning his elbows on the desk and bringing his index fingers together against his lips.

'How is your schoolwork going?' he questioned from behind those fingers, his eyes boring into me like he could see straight into my brain.

Ah, now that was a question I hadn't been expecting. You see, I was homeschooled – gang children aren't exactly welcome at public schools, you know? – so if my father was really interested in my progress, he could've just asked my tutor. He wouldn't usually come to me about it unless he'd found some information he didn't much like. Then again, even when that happened the meetings usually consisted of a quick thump to the back of the head and a reminder that he was keeping an eye on me.

'Umm...fine, thank you sir.' I replied shakily, not sure what kind of response he was looking for.

A single thick, black eyebrow was raised at this, which set my heart thundering out of my chest and running for the exit. If only I could follow after it.

Father leaned back in his chair, resting his hands against the desktop. He watched me for a minute, one impossibly long, heart-attack inducing minute, and then he did something completely unexpected.

He smiled.

It was such a novel thing to happen that I very nearly gasped out loud.

'It's time, Frank.' He announced dramatically.

Oh God, that couldn't mean anything good. When my father got excited about something, it usually meant he was about to come into a lot of money, or someone he disliked was about to turn up dead. Sometimes both.

' 'Time', sir?' I stuttered quietly, unwilling to wait for the unveiling a second longer.

Father nodded, grinning at me in an almost mischievous way. It was like he was sharing a secret with me, like we were small children swapping gossip. I wasn't sure I wanted to know whatever he was about to say.

'It is time, son, for you to end your studies,' he paused for effect, gauging my reaction, 'and join the gang.'

I stopped breathing. My world imploded suddenly. For a second, I couldn't even see. My body just...stopped functioning.

Join the gang...

When I finally came back to myself, I noticed that Father's eyebrows had scrunched together tightly. He didn't look pleased. Probably because I wasn't showing the excitement he'd expected. From the way my face felt, I probably looked like someone had just hit me in the face. With a dead puppy. After slipping me some sort of hallucinogenic drug.

I bobbed my head up and down in some weird imitation of a nod. Father still wasn't happy, but he carried on talking so I must've gotten somewhere.

'You understand, of course, that this will not be easy.' He explained, 'I'm not going to go easy on you because you are family.'

Well it wasn't like being family had gotten me any deals in the past. In fact, I'd got it worse than any other person in this house because I was family.

I nodded again, too afraid to tell him what I was really thinking. To tell him that this wasn't what I wanted, that I'd never once imagined myself as part of the gang because I wasn't that type of person. I wasn't my father, as much as he wanted me to be.

All this stayed with me, because I was too much of a coward to let him know. Frank Iero, a mob boss' and a fucking chicken. Something about that didn't sound quite right.

'You will join the other members and myself in gang meetings and you will go on any missions I see fit.' He told me, his tone matter-of-fact, 'Without argument.'

These last words were growled in such a tone that left no wriggle-room. I would do what Father did whether I liked it or not, or I'd end up a lot worse off.

'You will have to be put through an initiation to secure your place in the gang. The details of this will be decided upon at a later time.' He explained.

Fuck. Gang initiations were...tough.

I'm not talking athletic tests, no 'run here in this time' or 'lift this weight for this long'. I'm talking murder. Rape. Kidnapping. Torture. I'm talking the kinds of things that would get you put away for life if you did it outside of the gang.

Sometimes the target and mission was picked for you, which was hard enough. But sometimes, they asked you to get...creative. They'd drop you off on a street corner and watch as you picked some random person off the street and did whatever came to mind. The more creative you got, the more respect you got.

This is what I grew up in – and you thought your life was bad. Homework and friendship troubles ain't seeming so fucking bad now, are they?

I didn't do creativity. I mean, I could play a little guitar and could write a mean story if I had to, but I didn't do their kind of creativity. I wasn't brutal. I wasn't a murderer. But I would be if they had their way.

'Do you understand what I am saying, Frank?' Father asked impatiently.

'Yes, Father.' I replied, hoping my voice sounded stronger than I felt.

'I trust that you appreciate the opportunity I am giving you here?'

'Of course, Father.'

'Good, you can go.' And with a flourish of his hand, he dismissed me.

I stood on wobbly legs and hobbled in a zombie-daze out of the office. I brushed past Marcus as I left the room and vaguely noticed that he growled at me. Something about watching where I was 'fucking going, Little Iero'. I didn't reply, practically floating up the stairs and into my room.

Some part of my mind, some place far at the back that was still awake, told me that I was clenching my fists too tight, and that my bad hand was spilling blood onto the wooden floor.

As I slammed the door behind me and collapsed against it, I felt that tiny spark of life inside my chest die. That spark had been the hope I'd had to get out of this life, to leave the gang life behind.

A single tear trailed down my cheek as I gave up. A gnawing cold settled in my heart.