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Laughing, I head inside my building, thinking about everything that she said. Yeah, she was right on basically every account. It's not like I intentionally avoid processing my feelings, but even I'm not so dense as to ignore the fact that their brush-off so soon after Elliot’s, fucked up my heart a little bit. Still, wanting them back? Shit, they were never mine, not even for a second. I never thought that what I felt was reciprocated, but that video? I have no words.
If there is even a small chance they wanted me as much as I wanted them, what kept them away so long? Does it have anything to do with the information Nova gave us? All of that was absolutely nuts and way too much to process in one night. Is it possible the guys are seriously involved in the Italian mafia? Is Renz truly the head of the whole operation?
As I step into the elevator, a thought crosses my mind. Assuming it's all true, do I still want to be with them?
I know the answer before the door even has a chance to close.
Hell fucking yes.
CHAPTER SIX
Slidingintothebackof our SUV, I drop my head onto the headrest and close my eyes, already annoyed with what I know is about to come.
I can't deal with this shit right now. I don't have the time or the energy for any of it. I am so fucking exhausted. These last months since I usurped the metaphorical mafia throne have been utterly and entirely draining.
Attempts to assassinate me and my men have been basically nonstop. Of course, they’ve all been futile but it seems that everybody wants their go at the new Mafia Don. In their eyes, I’m young, untested, green. Little do they know, I’ve been training for this role since I could walk.
My father, Francesco Trevino, was never an easy man. In fact, he was downright brutal. There was absolutely no softness in the man for anyone, and that included his wife and son. There were no boundaries with him: no act too cutthroat, no punishment too harsh. In my father’s eyes, showing any emotion equated to weakness. Having any type of connection with anyone, family member or not, was an exploitable weakness.
I cannot remember a time when my father looked at me with anything other than cold calculation. I imagine that even goes back to when my mother was still pregnant with me. I would assume that from the moment my father found out that she was giving him a much-desired son, the plotting began.
The people in his life were only ever pawns on the chessboard of his kingdom, and in his eyes, that was the whole fucking world.
I learned how to shoot a gun when I was six and I wish I could say that memory had some sort of sweet connotation to it. That it was some type of father-son bonding moment where my father stood behind me, supporting my small hands, holding the gun with his much larger ones. Unfortunately, that’s not the case and that’s not the memory.
I recall being thrown into a small cell, and at the time, I wasn’t sure where it was but now, I know it was the dungeon beneath his manor, my childhood home. I was in nothing but my underwear, no shoes or socks, and I distinctly remember how cold the cobblestone, almost medieval-looking floor was beneath my feet.
I don’t remember everything, but I do recall crying for the first few days. There was no bed, no furniture, no toilet, and I was given no food or instructions. I was completely alone and lost.
I had a vague understanding of the word death by that age. My father had never been shy about hiding anything from me in regards to mafia life and that included killing both friend and foe right in front of me. So yeah, during those first few days, I definitely thought I had been left down there to die. To this day, I still think that might’ve been the case. I genuinely believe he assumed I wouldn’t make it past those first few days. While I now see it for what it was, a test as well as a training exercise, I wish he would’ve succeeded because what came next ultimately stripped me of my humanity before I even had a chance to see any other way to live.
I don’t know how long I had sat there, cold, lonely, scared, and starving before I finally saw him. My father came, and my first thought was excitement—I thought he was there to rescue me. I barely had the energy to cry out for him let alone rush to him but I wanted to so badly.
Then, someone else entered the dark, damp basement.
It took a moment for me to understand what I was seeing and when I did, confusion replaced excitement. It was another boy, about my age. He was dressed well and carrying a tray piled high with food. I momentarily thought maybe my father replaced me. That he found a new son, a perfect one who followed his instructions and rules better than I did. Then I saw the food, and I really didn’t give a fuck; I just wanted to eat.
The boy looked scared but he was trying to fight that emotion and replace it with a cold, indifferent mask the same way I had been taught. My father said nothing, didn’t even acknowledge me, as he opened my cell door and shoved the boy inside.
The boy sat the tray of food down in the far corner across from me before turning around to look at my father. He waited patiently; I’m not sure if he was waiting to be let out or for further instructions but as the cell door clanged shut, locking us both inside, it was clear the boy was just as confused and scared as I was.
My father pulled a small handgun from the back of his pants, crouched down, and slid it across the cell floor. The only thing that he said was, “kill him and eat, or die hungry”.
I learned how to shoot a gun that day and only one of us walked out.
I later found out that I’d been down there for 8 days, and that the little boy was my five-year-old cousin. I didn’t know him, we’d never met, but apparently, his father had double-crossed mine and my dad killed him and his wife in retaliation before sending his son to me. Such is the same for the majority of my extended family, including my mother and grandparents.
My own mother was a product of her environment. Raised in a powerful family to be a mafia wife. Promised and then sold like livestock when she was only sixteen and out of all people to have acquired her, it was of course my evil bastard of a father. He was much older than she was. He looked at her as nothing more than an object, a possession. He was brutal. Because of that, she became jaded—broken.
The lifestyle of a mafia wife made her ruthless and bitter. She took those emotions; her heartache and anger, out on me, her only child. It continued on that way until she died when I was fourteen. I don’t know the cause of her death, but the tagline of cancer sure as fuck was not it. I’ve no doubt my father ended her, if for no other reason than to rid himself of the burden of having a wife. Not that he ever treated her as such.
My paternal grandparents died when I was young. If the rumors are to be true, my grandfather was not a kind a human and I am thankful that he passed when I was still a baby. My grandmother on the other hand, was my saving grace. She was there for me, every step of the way.
Until she wasn’t.
My father only has one brother, Matteo. He is only a year younger than my father was but has always been the black sheep of the family. Though I have a relationship with my uncle, it is stilted and out of necessity rather than enjoyment.
I have never had a relationship with my mother’s parents; however, they did have six children. My mother was one of them. She had two sisters, who have both passed, and three brothers. One died, two still live. The one who died, was Isaac’s father and Elijah’s stepfather, Tommaso. Their situation was an absolute shit show. Though they do not share any blood relation, Zac and Eli were raised together for a large portion of their lives.
