The Game of Deceit (I)

We sat in a circle, facing each other, though we were not all clearly visible to one another. We were all acquainted and all had chosen roles we were to assume in the next few minutes. Peter stood at our attention to direct our actions, to organize the game. "There are three mafias, two detectives, and one angel," he announced.
On my slip of paper, I had glanced: Mafia.
"What did you get?" Ren turned to ask me.
"What?"
"What did you get?" he increased his volume in his request.
"What?"
"What did you get?!"
"What?"
This time he said it slower. "What. Did. You. Get?"
Then in slowness I repeated, "What?"
He scoffed, finally understanding my ploy.
I laughed. "Ren, why would I tell you?"
"Because I asked."
"Well, that's not a good enough reason. I'm not going to tell you," I stated. "Who are you?"
"Not telling."
"Exactly."
Banter and the blended voice of conversation was interrupted by Peter's plea to start.
"Wait, wait wait! Before we start: If there are three mafias, can they kill each other? I mean, so then they can lead people off their tracks."
"Yeah, especially if there's three of them," Billie echoed.
"No."
"Oh, okay. I'm good now."
"Good." He then reached behind him to relinquish half the lights of the room, setting an enigmatic mood. "One night, in the little town of Princeton, there was a group of people and among them was a mafia..."

Perspective stretched out the figures of those looking over at me, like I was at the bottom of a grave to be mourned over. "Are you okay?"
I tried to emit an affirmative groan from my mouth. Moving hurt.
"Guys give her some room, she needs to be able to breathe."
Shadows slowly retreated from over me.
All I wanted was for someone to hold my hand. Pain would be relieved when the warmth of skin enclosed my fingers. Someone hold my hand! There, the boy with purple laces pulled over his shoes, just like mine, he was my partner. He held my hand before. When we danced he didn't let go for very long, but now I was on the floor, needing that hand more than any of those preceding moments. Hold my hand!
Jane's sister closed in on my right to catch unmoving reaching limbs in protective comfort.
On my left, I raised the other desiring it to be enclosed. He came, and all my thoughts were directed toward that hand. His face was quiet with solemness, brows perched with hurting guilt, eyes watching me without restraint. He was the one who hurt me. Yet, he was the only face that I wanted to see.