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I nodded. “Text Marcello, tell him to be discrete. He’s too forthcoming with Alex.”
Bastian shoved a hand through his dark hair, sweeping it off his forehead, and removed his cell phone from his pocket.
I grabbed the guns from the side table and shoved them into the holster strapped to my chest. “Let’s go hunt monsters.”
The Knights grinned in satisfaction.
Alex was dead to the world, lost in her art. Her blonde hair fanned out around her as she laid on her stomach, on top of a drop cloth in front of a canvas. We’d been in my mother’s studio for over two hours, and she showed no signs of finishing her painting.
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. 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 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 foul 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 a 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 painting as he sipped from the bottle. I could hear him speak to my mother in Italian, his words muffled.
She was the glue that held our family together. Without her, we were falling apart.
My father dived headfirst into work, while Luca learned the family business. A 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.
I preferred to be left alone.
After Dad finished staring at my mother’s portrait, he strolled across the room, downing the rest of the scotch. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. I wondered if it was from the alcohol or if he’d actually cried over my mother.
Not once in my life had I witnessed him showing a single emotion. On the day Luca found my mother on the floor of her studio, with her head turned to the side, her lips as blue as the ocean, my father shed a tear.
Just one.
Dad glared at me, his mouth twisted into a scowl. “What do you think you’re doing, Marcello?”
Confused by his question, I looked up at him. “I’m painting.”
He shook his head. “I told you not to come into this room.”
“Sorry, Dad. I just wanted to be closer to her.”
My hands trembled when he bent down in front of me.
“She’s dead! You hear me, Marcello, dead. Nothing can bring her back. So when I tell you to stop with this nonsense, I mean it. No more painting. It’s time for you to act like a man and learn the business.”
He swatted the paintbrush from my hand. Paint splattered on his black Brioni suit, on my T-shirt, and across the floor. His eyes glazed over as he took in the sight of the red acrylic paint.
I was trying to recreate one of my mom’s paintings and failing miserably. My talent didn’t even compare to hers.
The empty bottle in his hand crashed to the floor, shattering into pieces. He reached down and gripped the collar of my shirt, choking me with the fabric as he pulled me up from the floor. I was almost as tall as him and gaining more muscle from playing football.
Even at his age, the old man was still as strong as an ox. He blew out a deep breath while I held mine, terrified of what he would do this time. His punishments were harsh and painful, reminders that were supposed to make my brother and me stronger.
“Look at what you did,” he snapped, his face inches from mine.
