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An icy chill settled over me. A whip of warning to stay quiet. A lash I didn’t listen to.
“You would torture your future wife?”
“Yes.” His detached voice answered. My breath hitched as my mouth parted, and I wanted to scream out the trapping shackle on my finger. Lucca closed any space left between us. His hand trailed to my chin. “I will have you begging.” His thumb dragged my lip while his eyes trailed with the swipe of his thumb.
Quick, labored breaths filled my lungs as I reeled in his words. With his hands on me, it was a difficult task to accomplish. I tore away his heavy fingers.
“Now, answerme.”
Exasperated, I blurted, “Mario Vitelli.”
Lucca didn’t seem shocked to hear my father’s name, but he turned away from my gaze. When I found his eyes again, they were empty and out of my reach.
“I’m not used to being gentle,” he said quietly. “But if I leave a mark on your arm, it will be the last.”
“If you leave a mark, I’ll be sure to leave you one.”
My emotions won over the years of practicing deception, but I wasn’t mentally capable of fretting over my tongue.
Humor shimmered through his eyes so quickly that it could have been an illusion.
I heard the whispers of Lucca Moretti. The youngest mob boss to have ever taken over a syndicate. The ruthless and cold killer. How quiet and yet lethal his mind worked to his gain. Most importantly, how he was a man of few words. That when he spoke, each word was deliberately thought-out and purposefully said. Perhaps I should have paid them more attention.
“Stay cold then.” I’d forgotten where this conversation had started. “After you.”
Tired of mind games, I walked. While his steps were silent, his presence was loud behind me. Lucca’s strong hand shot out in front of my body before I had the chance to open the door. Inked fingers gripped the copper doorknob, and I saw my brothers waiting as he pulled the door open. Both Enzo and Leo were far enough for privacy but close enough to hear a cry for help.
The weight of Lucca’s hand connected with my lower back as he stood beside me. A jolt of warmth and possessiveness followed his hand gesture.
It wasn’t the kind that would make your toes curl up from feeling wanted. It was the kind of possession that slowly suffocated. As he showed it in front of my blood, I knew that for men like Lucca, the word possessive was nowhere near the depth described in textbooks.
Leo’s lips twisted, and for once, he kept his volatile actions restrained. When Lucca’s hand pressed forward, I took a step with him in tow. Leo held on to a ledge so thin, with features flaring in displeasure. Meanwhile, Enzo’s eyes watched me carefully.
I almost laughed. A belly and ear-splitting laugh at the absurdity of the play before me. A charade showcasing ego and control. The bubbling humor, however, faded when I crossed a sober reflection.
Not one cared forme.
It wasn’t fully their fault. They were never taught to protect me. Never taught to look out for me, and the only way they did was by causing others pain or treating me as they would a boy of their age. Mother was the only voice for me, but even then, it was minimal. After she was gone, they only had a slight idea of what wasn’t right. Shortly after, I never saw them again as I was shipped out of the country. The times I did see them, they had changed with time into vicious and overprotective brothers.
Leo didn’t like other men speaking to me. If they did, it always ended with his knives drawn and a fight. So when I received the whistle that caused the end of someone's life, I knew I couldn’t handle the idea of someone dying fornothing. We had argued that day in Italy.
We’d yelled and cursed so harshly that it was the last time he visited. I said things, and he said things out of spite. But Leo never accepted his fault. He believedthatmeant being a brother.
Enzo, on the other hand, often talked to me. He didn't treat me like the kid I was. On the contrary, he chided me and spoke to me the same way my father did to him. Stern and emotionless.
Our broken relationship wasn’t all on them. I too had issues. I too fought back and lashed out with words I knew would wound. I picked their weaknesses and learned their scars to keep them bleeding and open. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized my faults.
It was too late then.
It was too late now.
Our wedge was too unstable to repair.
Us Vitellis were known for our blades, and while we hadn’t bled each other, we stabbed one another. Too bad, even as siblings, we’d lived up to our last name.
It was all about power.
Money.
