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“Never.” My lungs felt as if they were filling up with sand, each word I spoke harder to say than the last. “You’re a part of me. I’m a part of you.” I wiggled my fingers, hoping he would abandon this stupid plan and take my hand. “Come with me, Aid. Please.”
He stretched out his hand, and our fingers brushed. I pulled him toward me, begging him with my eyes to stay. Aiden tripped, and as I attempted to grab him, he found his footing.
Aiden reached into his hood and pulled out a red nylon fabric. “Sorry, Lexie. You can’t stop me. I hope you forgive me.”
Then he turned on his heels and jumped off the cliff. My heart sank into my stomach, and even though I knew I couldn’t help him, I rushed forward. The air surged back into my lungs as a blue and red parachute flew across the bay, lifting him into the air.
“Aiden,” I shouted. “Are you insane? You almost gave me a heart attack.”
But my moment of relief quickly turned into my worst nightmare. Aiden’s parachute snapped, and he flailed his arms, yelling my name. There was nothing I could do but watch my brother spiral out of the sky like a plane crashing to the beach.
And just like that, my world imploded.
I woke up with my heart racing and Marcello sleeping soundly beside me. For a moment, I considered waking him, but he looked so peaceful. I poked his arm, and he snored softly.
With Marcello out cold, I slipped out of my bedroom and rushed downstairs. Whenever Marcello spent the night, which lately was every night, the guards kept their distance. Tonight, not even Dom waited in the hallway.
I snuck downstairs, drawn toward the back of the house where Aiden had fallen to his death. But if he were dead, someone would have found a body. The police would have pronounced him dead. None of this made any sense. Was that a dream or a flashback? Or a false memory I had implanted to forget the real one?
As I crept toward the back door, I heard the most gut-wrenching sound float down the corridor. A chill rolled down my bare arms. Piano music, like something you would hear in The Phantom of the Opera, pulled my attention toward the great hall. I inched my way toward the music, hoping this wasn’t another one of Luca’s games.
Marcello
When I was a child, I was a lot like Alex. A free spirit without a care in the world. I wanted to be like my mother and spent most of my time in her studio, painting and studying art. My mother lit up every room with her smile, made people feel something with her paintings. She was the only good thing I had in my life. Hell, she was the good in all of our lives.
My father was always cruel and cold, but he hardened with each year since her passing. Luca was like him in many ways and had adapted easily to the changes in our house. I retreated into myself, spending more time painting and sketching in my mother’s studio. Until one day, my father was in a mood and put an end to my dreams of becoming an artist.
It was the five year anniversary of my mother’s death, and my dad was a complete disaster. I was in her studio, kneeling in front of a canvas with a rigger brush cradled between my fingers. My father swayed into the room with a bottle of Macallan in his hand, muttering curses under his breath in Italian. His eyes traveled across the room, shifting between her paintings and me.
He clenched his jaw when he set his hardened gaze on me. I shivered from the intensity in his deep brown irises, hoping he wouldn’t start another fight. When I was younger, he saved his punishments for Luca, taking out his anger on him. Luca didn’t mind learning his lessons and took them in stride. But the hell with that shit. I wasn’t a psychopath like my brother. I wanted to get out of this house and as far away from the violence as possible.
But I never had a choice.
Dad stopped in front of my mother’s self portrait and pressed his hand to the wall beside the framed oil paining as he sipped from the bottle. I could hear him speak to my mother in Italian, his words muffled. We all missed her, my father most of all. She was the glue that held our family together. Without her, each of us were falling apart in our own ways.
My father dived headfirst into work, while Luca made every effort to learn the family business. A natural genius, my older brother spent most of his time with his nose in a book, devouring its contents. One day, Luca would take over for my father and run Salvatore Global. He was more suited for the role, and I was glad I didn’t have to take on the responsibility.
