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It makes me think of Marcus and our childhood, which had been painted in blood and pain. Our father enjoyed the bottle just like Lulu’s mother. Funny how I ended up in a house just like my own. When ourpadrefavored his belt as a form of discipline, we took the beatings he delved out regularly without argument, knowing that doing so would only make things worse.
He loved to hear us scream.
It was after the abuse when we were the strongest. If it had been me on the end of ourpadre’sviolence, Marcus would stay with me, making me laugh through my pain. And vice versa. If it was Marcus’s flesh torn from the steel of the belt buckle, I would stay with him. I wasn’t much for jokes, but I had the best stash of comic books, and we would read them together. I always leaned toward anti-heroes like Venom. And Rorschach from Watchmen—he was someone I could understand, as his childhood of abuse had led him down his own destructive path.
Carnage, ironically, was Marcus’s favorite. He wasn’t far into his teenage years before he began exhibiting a similar kind of instability and lust for destruction.
I’m pulled from the memory as Lulu’s mother mumbles something incoherent but clearly nasty, and frankly, I’ve seen enough.
I have no one to give departing words to, as Valachi left the room following his wife’s casual display of violence, so I leave, closing the doors behind me and shutting Vivi in with her mother.
The long, empty hallway is silent. My gaze is drawn to the double staircase that dominates its width, but a noise further down the corridor has me stepping in that direction. Overhanging arches appear every twenty feet, the intricate baroque design along the edges making it appear as if the arch is about to drip water down upon me. Paintings wrapped in gold frames flank both sides of the arches; the splendor screams wealth and power and gives me a sense of oppression at the same time.
It’s too much. I much prefer my own home, an apartment in Cobble Hill, New York.
Light slits the oak flooring beneath my feet. The source is a partially open door tucked into an alcove. I raise my hand to knock but pause before pushing the door noiselessly open and stepping in.
It’s a miniscule bathroom, probably used for servants or unimportant guests, judging from the lack of opulence. Everything else in this house is luxurious and extravagant, so this small room doesn’t seem like one the family would be accustomed to using. Yet, it’s here where I find Lulu.
Her hands are clasped on either side of a white pedestal sink, her face turned away from me as she examines the lump on her head in a mirror hung above the sink.
“Mynonnaalways recommended butter to take down the swelling.”
Her head snaps in my direction, and she appears immobilized for a brief second before, like a clumsy deer, she releases the sink and fights to find her balance. Like a spinning top, she tilts, and I take a step toward her. When she rights herself, I stop.
Her nostrils flare, and she tilts her head. Her hand rises to the lump on her temple. “Butter?” Her voice is all soft, feminine grace, and more anger floods my bloodstream.I’m wondering why the fuck I’m sharing such private information with her.
“Yes. I’m not sure what properties are in butter, but whenever I got a bump, she would slather it with butter.” I want to smile at the memory of Nonna taking down the cream porcelain butter dish. She would remove the lid, dip two fingers into the yellow substance, and smother the hurt with it. I don’t smile, though. Instead, another wave of loss tightens my hands into fists. Nonna died before her ninety-sixth birthday, leaving me without a mother or grandmother.
“Did it work?” she asks.
I’m aware of how close we’re standing, of how I tower over her.
“It definitely made me feel better,” I confess, stretching out my fingers. If Nonna had ever suspected the beatings our father gave us, she would have been beside herself. She hadn’t raised him to be a violent man, but the life… it tends to make us so. No amount of butter could heal the wounds that were inflicted upon our psyches.
Lulu’s hazel eyes soften further, gold flecks swirling, and I find myself looking away. She shouldn’t look at me like that. If she had a lick of sense, she’d be running.
“I’ll try some. Thank you.”
I nod. I shouldn’t be chasing after the first pretty thing I see, even if I do like to collect things of beauty. Maybe I will add Luciana Valachi to my collection.
I smirk as I take a step, crossing the threshold. “Try the butter.” My departing words are rough.
As I leave the dark beauty in the bathroom and track down her piece of shit father, I remind myself why I am here.
To avenge my mother. To inflict a debilitating level of pain on the Valachi family, as they did upon ours.
That was my sworn promise. And having more power than Marcus is a strong driver, as well. I don’t trust him. The thought propels me down the hallway.
Time to get to work.
CHAPTER FOUR
LULU
Timepassesinablur. Damon’s arrival has done so much for our family. Father no longer relies on Angel or me to the extent he once did. Damon has taken on our roles, and others, with ease, and yet somehow, he’s managed to keep himself separate from all of us.
All of us, that is, except for Vivi. He likes her, treats her as an affectionate older brother would.
