Chapter one
Kaden
Thereareonlyafew times in my life that I can recall shedding tears. Crying is a normal reflex, an automatic spillover of anger, sadness, and even joy. It’s biology’s way of forcing your body to confess what your mouth refuses.
And it’s solid proof that you can form a reaction.
It’s humanity in its own cruel and humbling way.
Having missed the chemical compound required to experience those strong emotions is simply like connecting a puzzle piece. You’re told calmly and clinically that everything will forever remain muted in your eyes. You nod along with the doctor, not because you believe him, but because you have no need to argue his diagnosis. At least you know there was never anything to lose to begin with.
While your mom and dad cry in the leather chairs of the sterile waiting room, you simply exist, an onlooker observing a scene that should provoke something inside of you.
But all you can think of is how to make themshut up.
It’s been my struggle since I was told at the young age of eight that I would be evaluated later at eighteen for Antisocial Personality Disorder. Until then, I have a conduct disorder.
It’s hard to stir up any extreme emotion in me. Even when Mom died a few short months later due to a car accident, I didn’t shed a single tear as I stood over her casket. While my family wailed and mourned, I was enraptured by the eternal slumber of my mother. Her skin was ice-cold to the touch and firm. Death looked like something untouchable—a state that preserved everything while the Earth got to feast on flesh.
It was fascinating and sparked my interest for the first time. While my dad spent his endless nights grieving, I was always trying to find something to replicate what I had seen in the casket of the funeral home. It became an unrelenting itch, gnawing away at any drive I had to pretend to be normal for my old man’s sake.
I was already an outcast at school, sticking with the few friends from lower places who were also looked at like freaks. My inner circle didn’t budge when I told them I started collecting dead things—trophies, as I like to call them.
That’s what I liked about my friends. Ivan was used to that sort of thing. Raised as the future Pakhan of his father’s crime family, very little could shock him. Least of all my tendencies.
Saint has never been right in the head. He doesn’t appreciate death as I do, but he enjoys his own hot-headed tendencies. He likes getting into fights with anyone who looks at him for a moment too long. He’s like a beacon of carnage, constantly tearing up those in his path.
Together, we’ve created our own fucked up kind of stability. At only eleven years old, everything still seems bleak, but I have something to cling to. Those grey colored glasses are still firmly in place, but I couldn’t care less about anything being vibrant.
Untilshecame along.
Chapter two
Melody
Thecarissilentas Mom rolls up the long driveway. The black iron fence blocking our path slides back with a groan, drawing my gaze to it. It’s old money, the first sign that we’re never going back to our single-wide trailer at the park we left behind in Staten Island.
The mansion in the distance is the second sign, towering over the posh neighborhood like a daunting beacon. It’s beautiful, but nothing we’re used to.
The rolling fresh grass and the crisp scent of spring linger in the air as I lean on my folded arms out the open window of the backseat. There’s not a single decayed spot on the lawn, and the flowerbeds running parallel to the driveway are adorned with brightly colored petals. It eases some of the tension swirling in my gut.
At least the view is pretty.
“How are you feeling, Jellybean?” Mom asks, her blue eyes flickering over to me in the rearview mirror. Her brown-blonde hair is tucked neatly behind her ears, concern pulling at her dark brows as the faint laugh lines around her mouth wrinkle.
My mom has always been beautiful—tall and striking. She reminds me of a rare gem, often hidden within a flowing riverbed and surrounded by harsh conditions. She never lost her sparkle along the way; no matter how many jobs she worked or late nights she pulled at the bar, she still radiates a beauty that seems timeless.
I’m a smaller replica of her, but my hair is a bright blonde, and my eyes are an amber brown, inherited from my late father, whom I’ve only seen in photos. He passed before I was born, but the memorabilia my mom keeps is like opening a gateway into who I was molded from. I have the same button nose and narrow chin, with the same softness my mom has in her cheeks.
I’m a perfect combination of both of them, allowing me to get a glimpse of my dad anytime I look in the mirror.
“Nervous…” I trail, one of my hands sliding down to the end of my sundress. I roll the fabric between my fingers, giving myself a small morsel of comfort.
Mom’s eyes track the motion, recognition passing on her face before she replaces it with a soft smile. “You’ve already met Mr. Wilder before. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
I’ve met the billionaire more times than I can count. After he first bumped into my mom during one of her shifts at a high-end restaurant, they’ve been smitten with each other. Watching them slowly fall in love over the last year has breathed even more life into Mom, giving her a glow that awed me. To see your strong-willed mother finally cared for and doted on the way she deserves is breathtaking. Mr. Wilder never intended to replace my dad, but he’s been a saving grace in our small family. He’s kind and generous, always attentive to mine or Mom’s needs. He shows us off any chance he gets, waving a proud hand as if to say, “Look at the treasure I found!”
Meeting the warm and kind man again isn’t what rattles me. It’s hisson.
