Page 124 of Alessio

Over the years, he had become rather good at pretending like people’s bullshit didn’t bother him, and … tonight had been more than enough to make him fucking snap.

Oh, sure, Alessio would have taught the guy a lesson, too, but just differently than Corrado. Like taking him outside and beating the piss out of him where people couldn’t stand there and watch.

People like Ginevra.

Corrado let out a heavy breath, his back hitting the brick wall opposite to Alessio. Still, his companion said nothing as he snarled under his breath, dragged his palms down his face, and stared up at the inky sky with bright stars dotting its surface.

He still missed the stars.

They didn’t see them enough in Vegas.

“Corrado—”

“Just don’t,” he muttered.

Alessio sighed. “That was bad.”

“I don’t need the memo.”

“No, I mean … that was a mess, and what the fuck?”

What was it?

A lot of things.

Nothing, too.

Everything.

Five fucking years of comments under people’s breath about what they thought with Alessio and Corrado, like they had any fucking business opening their mouths to say anything at all.

It was more years of him always being told famiglia should be the only thing Corrado did—he would only ever be useful as a man, if he was his father’s clone.

The frustration.

His anger.

A reaction.

Corrado finally reacted, and surprise, it came out badly. Why on earth was anyone surprised? Because he wasn’t.

This felt like a long fucking time coming.

“He didn’t give a fuck, you know?” Corrado asked.

“Who?”

“That fuck—George.”

He still stared at the sky and willing that hatred in his heart to disappear, loathing the emotion—it had no place in his life. He felt a lot of ways about a lot of different things, but hate terrified him.

Hate made people do awful things to one another. Fear bred in hate, and people had killed for nothing more than their hate of someone else, or for their hate of something.

Be it differences, sexualities, religion, or skin color … hate caused pain. That’s all it was good for, and he proved that tonight, hadn’t he?

His hate came out in violence. How did that make him any worse or better than the man who was dead on the floor upstairs?

Corrado didn’t think he was better.