So, here's my little Scarface story. Hope you enjoy!
…And Everything In It
I couldn't tell you why I fell in love with him, or why I agreed to even marry him. I don't think anyone could, but I did. Everyone told me he was trouble. Even I knew he was trouble. But obviously that didn't stop me. He's killed thousands, many of them with his bare hands, and I still agreed to be his wife.
I vividly remember the first day we met.
I had been at the club with my friends; the Babylon was the place to hang out at the time. We were dancing-something I was never comfortable doing, but did anyway so my friends, mainly Sasha, wouldn't bitch. There was a guy sitting in the "rich" section, as we put it. I noticed him just glancing at me every now and then. After awhile, he himself jumped onto the dance floor. Soon he was dancing by me. At first, I thought he was the biggest moron alive, and I tried to get away. Then he started talking to me, and I changed my opinion. He had a smooth and sexy Cuban accent that caught my attention immediately. We had a casual conversation and not long after he was buying me a drink.
I left that club with him that night and had no regrets.
After that one, single night together, we became close friends. During those few months, I guess he really grew on me. I found myself wanting to talk to him everyday, and when he did call me I was completely and utterly ecstatic. The night he asked me out is still fresh in my mind. Well, now that I think about it, he really didn't ask me out exactly, but what does it matter? We were dancing, a usual thing to do, when a slower song came on. He took my hands and led me towards the middle of the floor. He wrapped his arms around me, and rested his head on my own. The song ended and we parted slowly. He took my face in his hands and kissed me with so much passion I let go breathless. He smiled at me, and I smiled back, knowing I had found my man.
A few years had passed, and things had gone well. I learned more and more about him everyday. He was a Cuban refugee. He went to great lengths to get here to America. Since then he has become one of our city's leading drug-dealers. That was a factor that really should have bothered me, but for some odd reason, it didn't. Half the time, he was killing opponents or trying to make a big deal with someone. And for some strange reason, I didn't care. I didn't care one bit that the man I loved was out dealing cocaine-yeyo, he called it-and slaughtering men left and right. I didn't care that he would come home bloody and drugged up. All that mattered to me was that he was home safe with me.
He made a lot of money with all the deals and the killings. Even the death he caused didn't upset me. He took me out to dinner, to beautiful, first-class restaurants all the time. He bought a wonderful mansion and asked me to live with him. He bought me jewelry that I never in my life could afford. He had me wrapped around his finger.
One night, he bought me the most beautiful dress I had ever seen and told me to prepare for the night of my life. We went to the Babylon, the place we had met, and without one single word he slipped a rose in my hand. The stem was wrapped around a gorgeous diamond ring. With tears in my eyes, I flung myself onto him, and cried "yes" over and over.
The wedding was small. Our closest family and friends were invited, and we had a small reception afterward. It had to have been the happiest day of my life. Even our honeymoon being cut short due to the death of a dealer didn't bother me. I now had everything I could ever want.
We were married four years without any complications. We both worked hard everyday and came home to spend time with each other every night. There were times when I had to pick him up from random places in odd hours of the night. Strangers would show up at our house asking for him. And still, it never bothered me. Not once.
I can remember a time when he would ask my opinion on his job, like if it bothered me at all. We would discuss it for hours, and I would always tell him that he could be a serial killer (which in a sense he was) and I would still love him the way I do. We would talk about having children. It was something I wanted to do, but with the lifestyle that he led, it just didn't seem like a very good idea. After all, I only needed my guy and I had him. Although now, I wish we did have children.
He had to go to New York for a week or so to meet up with a man he was going to start doing business with. I had begged him not to go but nothing I said would change his mind. He promised me that he'd be careful-something he's always promised-and he'd be home as soon as possible. I let him go the next night, tears welling in my eyes.
The trip must have been cut short because he showed up three nights later in a rage. He woke me to let me know he was home, kissed me softly, and he locked himself up in his office. He emerged hours later, traces of white powder on his nose. He walked over to my side of the bed, made love to me, and told me that no matter what happens, he'd always love me.
It was the last time I ever saw him alive.
I had fallen asleep in his arms. I awoke alone in the dark, and to the sound of gunshots. He used to tell me that if I ever heard suspicious noises in the house to stay in the room I was in and don't come out until he yelled for me. I curled up on the bed and prayed he was ok. I knew for a fact he could handle situations like this, but I was still worried. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the noises stopped. I heard a loud splash, and then the sound of closing doors.
I walked out of the room and began searching for my husband. The house was a shambles. Things thrown everywhere, bullet holes in everything; the place was utterly destroyed. I walked into his office. Nothing. I called his name repeatedly. No answer. I walked to the edge of the balcony and looked down. I gasped and stumbled back, hitting the wall with a loud thud. I couldn't believe what I saw.
There was blood everywhere, and someone was floating in the indoor pond he had insisted on installing. I could tell just by the suit that it was him. It wasn't long before I began to scream.
Through the years I had been with him, married or not, I had loved him. Despite all the crimes he's committed, I had loved him through and through.
He could be considered the greatest American gangster of all time…
And his name was Tony Montana.