“You are here to work. If for some reason, Carlos was unable to perform a task, you would be his number two. You’re not a man of leisure, Enrico. We’re Silvas. We work and run empires.”
“Not everyone is made for this world, Enrico. I can always assign someone else if it's too much,” I say, revelling in his look of pure hate toward me. He wants to lash out like the spoiled child that he is. I’m gonna make him squirm before taking him apart.
“I can handle anything, just as much as you can,” he sneers. I take a gulp of wine, enjoying the heat of the alcohol as it lights up my blood with determination.
“Good. We’re meeting them tomorrow, so be ready.”
“Since when did you arrange this without my approval?” my father demands.
“You said you want me to become the heir, be by your side. I would assume you wouldn’t want me asking you to hold my hand like a child. I wanted to take initiative, prove to you that I’m in this. I’ve had time to think and what better way than for me to just get the ball rolling. The Marins will be more receptive to a new face.”
“I’m not sure about this. They play dirty.”
“I have gotten experience dealing with new crews everyday from what I did back in America. I know how to woo a new client. That's what I'll do here. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. Make a deal to get them to back off, and when it's settled, attack them. Take over their business and expand the Silva name. Put fear into others that we bite,” I sound so convincing for a second I forget that I’m lying. But he’s falling for it. His ego would never allow him to read between the lines.
“I’m impressed, son. Your ruthless side you get from me.”
I smile, and it hurts my face to force the muscle to perform the move.
“What about fuckboy?” my brother says. I curl my feet in my shoes so as not to show my true emotion.
“What about him?” I ask with a shrug.
“Have you checked on him? Seen my handiwork up close?” he laughs.
“No. I’ve been too busy working. You both conflated what that really was. It was never a thing. We can send him back to the states in the next day or two when he can sit upright.
“I knew you would come back, son. A toast…” he says raising his glass, and we both follow.
“The Silvas,” he says with pride, like it's something to be proud about. “The Silvas,” we say together, and the bile in my throat struggles to stay down as I swallow the wine.
31
SIMON
A s I awake, the first thing I feel is pain.
It pulses along my back and down my spine, a dull, constant throb that chains me to the bed. My neck aches from
sleeping on my stomach. Every movement feels like the skin on my back will tear open. The sheets beneath me provide a pleasant coolness, clean and fresh. For a second, disoriented and half-awake, I start to think I may be dead, because I sure as hell didn’t fall asleep in this bed. When I shift again, the pain proves I am indeed alive.
As my eyes fully open, I watch as the soft light of morning spills across the floor in long golden stripes. The heavy curtains have only been drawn halfway, causing the sun to filter through like it’s afraid to fully touch me. The room smells of lavender, prompting my brain to realize I’m back in my room. Still in this hellhole house among the fuckers who tortured me. It makes my stomach twist.
A low snore comes from across the room, and I turn my head slightly to see Lucas slumped in the armchair by the window. His arms crossed, head tipped back at an awkward angle. He looks wrecked. Still in yesterday's clothes, dark stubble that wasn’t there yesterday shadows his jaw, his gun holstered beneath his jacket like a silent promise.
Out of nowhere, memories start to flood back, like a rock breaking through glass.
My bound hands.
The whip.
My skin splitting open.
The voices.
The torment.
Pain.
