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“Look at me, boy,” Dad growled.
I did as he instructed.
“You are my heir, Luca, but you are rotten to the core. And if you touch Marcello again, I will beat the sickness out of you.”
“I’m sorry,” I lied.
I wasn’t sorry for shit.
When I looked up at my mother, who hugged herself as she cried, I knew I’d fucked up. Because her love meant more to me than anyone. Only a mother could love someone like me.
My father shook his head. “You’re not sorry.”
He always saw right through me. Our souls were so similar he knew what I was thinking. I was his son in every way.
Mom grabbed Marcello from his bed and cradled him in her arms, planting kisses on his cheeks. She rocked him, and I hated him for it because I wanted to take his place.
“It’s okay, Marcello,” she whispered as she stroked his dark hair. “Mommy’s here now.”
I never wanted to see that look in her eyes, never wanted to feel… whatever this was again. My mom was the only person who made me feel something. I felt dead on the inside with other people, like there was a hole in place of my heart.
Dad bent down in front of me on one knee and slid his fingers beneath my chin. “One day, this kind of brutality will serve you well. Until then, you better not defy me. Do you understand me?”
I blew out a deep breath. “Yes, Father.”
“Step out of line again, and you will suffer.”
I rubbed my knees, wincing at the pain still shooting up my thighs.
He glanced down at my deliberate movements. Then his focus was back on my face. “Pain is weakness leaving the body. Once you understand that, Luca, it doesn’t hurt as much. Toughen up. I can’t have a baby as my heir. There is no room for weakness in our world.”
“I’m not weak.”
“No, you’re not,” he said with the same vacant look in his eyes. “One day, my son will rule the world. And I will make sure you understand the consequences of having weaknesses.”
I cupped my father’s shoulder as we watched Carl Wellington perform his magic on Marcello. If my brother didn’t survive, it wouldn’t just break Alex. It would crush all of us. Thankfully, my father had taught me how to take the pain and use it for good. He showed me how to wield it like a weapon.
I never had a single weakness.
Not until I met Alex.
Despite our past differences, I was like my father in every way. Years of his cruelty had hardened me into a man forged from steel. I embraced the pain, believed I needed to atone for all of my horrible thoughts and actions.
We were both sick fucks.
I enjoyed receiving his punishments as much as he enjoyed giving them. And as an adult, I enjoyed handing out the same misery to others.
Marcello was nothing like me.
I’d spared him years of pain because of my mother. I took the beatings when my father was at his worst. Two days before my mother’s death, I made her a promise, one I would never forget.
My mother stood on a scaffolding ladder in her studio, with her long, black hair piled on top of her head, with two paintbrushes holding it up. She always wore her hair like that when she was painting. It was like she couldn’t waste a second looking for a hairband, too focused on her art. When she was in her element, nothing could deter her. We were a lot alike in that regard.
Marcello was eight years old and slowly following in her footsteps. He sat on the floor in front of an easel, his paintbrush sweeping across the canvas. He was a natural artist who had our mother’s talents.
I tried to paint, but I was my dad in every way. My book smarts would one day make me a powerful man, and I followed my father’s carefully laid plans. But I often appeased my mother by trying to paint. It made her happy to see Marcello and me in her studio, acting like a family.
After the time I tried to kill him, I never attempted it again. We still weren’t on the best terms, but I tolerated him for my mom. I liked making her happy and never wanted to hear her call me the son of the devil again. She loved me more when I was good, and my father loved me more when I was bad, like him. So I learned how to share different parts of myself with my parents.
