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Marcello’s bedroom was down the hall from mine. I pushed open his door and stood in the entryway with a grin plastered on my lips. He was napping in his bed, snoring as I approached him. A humidifier blew a mist across the room.
I smelled the saltiness of the sea in the air. The scent of the bay permeated every inch of this house. All of my clothes, even my hair and skin, smelled like salt. I could always catch the faintest hint and loved it. When I gazed at the bay, I felt a sense of calm wash over me. It helped quell the rage inside me.
I stood beside my brother’s bed with the pillow in my hand. “Wake up, Marcello.”
He was sound asleep, dead to the world.
I flicked his cheek with my finger. “Time to wake up.”
He groaned, then his eyes fluttered as they met mine.
“She’s not your mom.” I hovered over him with the pillow. “She’s mine.”
Marcello squirmed as he tried to get up from the mattress, but I pushed him down, holding him with all of my strength.
“Luca,” he cried, swatting at my hands.
I lowered the pillow over his face. “Shut up.”
He screamed for my parents.
“Brother,” he whined in that stupid childish voice. “Brother…”
For a moment, I hesitated, as if hearing the word brother triggered something inside me. And that brief pause saved his life.
My mother shouted behind me. Something hit the floor with a thud, and I dropped the pillow. I spun around, staring at my mom. She was beautiful, with long black hair like silk and the same blue eyes she’d passed down to her children.
With tears in her eyes, her body trembled with fear. “Luca, what are you doing to Marcello?”
“I was…”
I was going to kill him.
Juice spilled on the floor and splashed her expensive heels. She yelled for my dad, her shrill voice sounding like nails running down a chalkboard.
“Figlio del diavolo,” my mother whispered, her eyes widening as they landed on me.
I’d started learning Italian when I was two years old and understood her. She was the daughter of immigrants and mostly spoke in her native tongue. My mother called me the son of the devil. Marcello, her precious angel, sat on his bed while I stared at her with my usual dead expression.
I loved my mother more than anything in this world. But sometimes, I felt it. I knew I scared her, too.
My father’s dress shoes pounded the floor. He stopped in the doorway, his intense gaze sweeping over the room. His eyes fell to the juice on the floor, then to me.
Dad’s jaw tightened as he burned a hole through me with his eyes. “What did you do, Luca?”
I shrugged, giving him a bored look.
“He tried to suffocate Marcello with his pillow,” my mother shouted, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“It’s okay, Eva.” My dad pulled her into his arms and kissed the top of her head. “The boy will learn his lesson and take it like a man.”
A typical child would have trembled in fear. But not me. The thought of punishment almost excited me. When I did terrible shit, my parents paid attention to me. They stopped making a big deal over Marcello and had to address my behavior.
My dad released his grip on my mom and snarled as he approached me. “Is this true? Did you try to kill your brother?”
I nodded, not the least bit sorry.
He smacked me so hard across the cheek my knees hit the floor, and an intense pain crawled up my legs and back. Standing over me, he kicked me with his shoe. It didn’t hurt as much as the fall, but it still fucking hurt.
