Arc One: Dawn Island I

Ch. 1: Sound the Alarms

Sam wakes up, and it feels like someone hit her with a semi-truck. While this isn't a particularly new feeling, it is troublesome. The nagging ache behind her eyes usually means; she drank an excessive amount of high-quality alcohol—or she's injured and in the hospital. Either option has her feeling like shit. She finally decides it's the hospital. Only because her mouth doesn't feel like the Mojave Desert, nor does her heart feel like it's going to race right out of her chest.

Keeping her eyes open seems like a chore, and all she can see is strangely large blurry shapes. Even after what seems like hours, it all seems hazy. Her ears are sensitive, and she's picking up weird words. It's nothing like the rhythmic sound of her native Italian. Is she somewhere else entirely? Was she kidnapped? Is she a hostage?

She wiggles a bit, and she realizes that her body feels weird; there is no longer a constant ache that runs along her shoulder. The injury in her right arm is always troublesome after she falls asleep. It doesn't matter which way she rests; the nagging pain from a gunshot wound she received in her teens would always be problematic. Was it drugs making her this hazy?

Where was Iggy? Her nephew should be at home. Did he have school today? Could Gess make sure he had breakfast? She wants everything to make sense! Nothing feels right! Sam is too constricted. Everything seems off-kilter, and it's driving her crazy.

Thoughts tumble around in her mind like an unbalanced load in a washing machine. Her mind feels clumsier than usual. It's not as streamlined as she's used to; the only thing that disrupts her mental ramblings is when the hunger pains hit her. Those hurt like a bitch. The pain only goes away when something, what feels like a bottle, is placed in her mouth. Sometimes she feels wet, and she hates that too. Luckily, these problems don't last too long. Someone fixes them for her.

That, in itself, is suspicious. No one did anything for Sam, ever. Maybe her brother did at some point in her younger years. But even then, he was split between attempting to keep a roof over their heads and trying not to die in the mafia.

Sam is uneasy about this whole situation. Nothing is adding up to make even a semi-coherent picture. Why can't she get up to check on Iggy or Gess? No matter how hard she tries, it's like there are no muscles in her body!

Has she been injured? That didn't make sense! She hadn't done running since Iggy was born. Faded memories brush softly at the sides of her mind like wispy fingertips.

All she can remember is closing up for the night after pulling the numbers for the shipment from Ecuador. The Shitty Boss wanted to make sure no one was skimming off the top. After that, it's a blur of sounds and shots.

There was an all-out firefight in Antonio Marino's villa with the Costanza family. She felt pressure in her chest and excruciating pain. Then there was the feeling of her hot blood spilling out of her body. The liquid slowly soaked into the stiff-white blouse she had worn that day. The sick feeling of blood cooling rapidly as soon as it hit the cold tile of the kitchen floor. Screaming and then nothing.

The memory jolts something, and she truly opens her eyes for what feels like the first time. She can see this time! Though the sight that meets her isn't one to be savored.

Sam sees the crisp image of a ghostly white face with cracked make-up. Fine lines stretch at the sides of her eyes, and facial muscles strain under the grimace that pulls at the woman's dry lips. The blonde in front of her looks like she just got done sucking a lemon. Sam hates that look.

There's condescension and a sense of unjustified superiority in those squinting, beady-black eyes and scowling sneer; it throws her back to the days when she was still living with her mother when she had to deal with the neighbors that would never understand her life. Sam develops a visceral urge to tell the judgmental fuckwit in front of her to get the hell out of her face; before she puts a new breathing hole in the middle of her head.

She makes a motion to speak, to tell the woman to remove herself from any proximity of Sam, but she's met with gums and no teeth.

She double-checks to make sure she isn't losing her mind.

Sam is not ashamed to say she screams, and even to her ears, it's annoying. But that doesn't stop her from wailing for three more hours until she passes out from exhaustion.

The next time she wakes up, it's to another surprise. Sam isn't sure how many more she can take without her mind breaking completely. A baby that looks like her nephew Iggy; stares at her with wide eyes and a smile. Though, he's not a complete doppelgänger. But, the short nose, black-brown eyes, and curly wisps of blonde hair have her pulling up images of her little monkey. The infant in front of her was five to six months old. Iggy is seven years old, going on eight in September.

She isn't sure what to make of the kid as he gums on her hand. Sam wonders if there is a single thought in his head; or if he was trying to eat her hand. Sam looks down at her other hand and sees tiny-pudgy fingers. She suppresses the instinctive urge to scream. Nothing in her life has prepared her for something like this.

Sam has always been a Catholic. Not a very good one. Murder and drug running aren't very virtuous past-times. Using the Lord's name in vain also isn't unheard of from her. Honestly, Sam still ponders if she could cross the threshold of a chapel.

All of that aside, she still believes in her religion, even if it is only relegated to the back of her mind most of the time. But, now, maybe something was mistranslated.

Sam is sure as fuck she isn't any Jesus to be gifted a rebirth. She is selfish, violent, hostile, abrasive, bratty, curses like a disobedient drunk sailor, and smokes like a chimney. No, Sam isn't particularly holy. So why did it seem like she's in the body of a baby? Sam researched a couple of other religions in passing. Not enough to know gods' names or anything, but she had heard of reincarnation. Is that what this is?

But why? The question sits in her stomach like a lead weight. Sam is a no-name girl from the slums of Italia. A former street rat turned Mafioso. She isn't anyone special. Is this just a thing that happens when people bite the bullet? If anything, she would have expected to be reborn as a slug or worm. A clumsy kid would probably kill her, and she would deserve it.

Sam wrangles her saliva-drenched hand out of the grasping maw of the blond. The whine of dissatisfaction has her rolling her eyes at the little drama king. She wiggles closer and decides it's as good a time as any to take a nap.

The next couple of weeks is monotonously slow. It's only filled with the bustling of nursemaids and butlers. It's probably a poor indicator of what type of parents she's got for her second life. All she can think about is the kid next to her. They sometimes kept them together. Other times, someone places her in a separate gilded crib.

Somehow, the little brat has managed to worm himself into her heart. Every time the kid curls up into her back; or when he grips her hand tight, it causes a surge of familial affection to swell in her chest.

To Samantha DiAngelo, the family was law. Their family was so fucked up in the end. It didn't matter anymore if they were a toxic piece of shit. You told them what you thought of them, brawled about it, and moved on helping when you could. You never betrayed the family.

Sam would be the first to admit that that mindset isn't healthy. But, she couldn't bring herself to care about what other people thought anymore. Until they were in it, they would never understand.

She rolls over to her stomach, and she wiggles her foot out of her brother's gnawing gums. Sam has already sacrificed a sock to the grabby hands of the blond! She doesn't want the headache of trying to get another slobbery-sock off her foot. With the number of muscles she has at the moment, it's like torture trying to get it off before her skin prunes.

The flashy bars of the crib nearly blind her when the sunlight reflects off of gold and straight into her eyes. These were the gaudiest cots she's ever had the displeasure of seeing, and they could have been hawked for a fortune back in Italy! A day late, dollar short, she supposes.

Sam hears the clopping of heels and expensive handmade shoes in the marble hallway. The sound of finely tailored shoes on stone always sounds different to Sam. She assumes it's from her experience with her previous boss. It's a sound that she despises.

The door swings open on silent hinges, nothing in this house squeaks or creaks. This whole place seems made of tile, stone, and the ashes of what makes an actual home. Sam isn't sure why her heart is beating so fast, but it feels like she's about to have a panic attack. Maybe it's a remembered response from her days as a mafia brat?

The open doorway reveals two adults. The one on the right was the woman with judgmental eyes. She still had an unhealthy amount of loathing for that look on the blonde's face. The other was a man with a gelled handlebar mustache, a top hat, and a face that holds no emotion. Though, Sam can see a tinge of disdain there if she tilts her head to the side. They both look like they had too much money on their hands. Also, their fashion sense is atrocious. They look like they're sixteenth-century holdouts with the clothes they are wearing. Frilled neck collars should not still be a thing.

The adults speak. And Sam has no idea what the fuck they are saying. Wherever the hell she ended up, they speak a different language than Italian. Sam had noticed this issue sooner, obviously; the maids liked to gossip. She wishes that she could understand them if only to get some more information than the crumbs she currently has at her tiny fingertips.

Sam, who is completely frustrated, flops to the soft mattress. Exasperation at her situation finally overwhelms her. She hears the woman squawk with indignation, or what she's assuming is indignation if the look of horror and disgust has anything to say about it. At least her brother gets a chuckle from her antics.

—

The previous stuff will be heavily edited for a different OC.

I want to apologize for previously giving a schedule that I couldn't commit to, that was unfair of me.