Ansuya Rathor

The Little Black Book

Growing up the son of a mobster was tricky to say the least. I never knew where I stood with the man. Example: the scariest thing about him was his laugh. Sometimes he was amused, but most of the time he was mocking me. I was his target practice for humiliation. These episodes caused my insides to squeeze, my palms to sweat, and my cheeks to burn with anger. I dreamed of running but could not imagine actually escaping his reach.