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Prologue
NICO
13 years old…
“I’m sorry.”
I lift my head from the mat on the floor to glare at my twin brother and am not surprised that his expression doesn’t match his tone. Nicholi is good at saying what he thinks someone wants to hear, even when it’s the furthest thing from the truth. Even at thirteen, he’s a master manipulator and our father’s favorite son.
“Just leave me alone,” I mumble, unable to open my mouth to speak normally.
I hate showing him, or anyone, weakness, but after being beaten by Father, I have no strength left. I am physically and mentally drained.
Nicholi walks further into the small room, only to stop when his toes touch the mat. “You should’ve listened to Yanni.”
Maybe he’s right, maybe I should have listened to Father’s lead goon. But I couldn’t. Not when it meant hurting the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen since our mother disappeared. I was already on Father’s shit list, so what was one more act of defiance?
“He’s gonna send you away, ya know?”
There’s no mistaking the happiness in Nicholi’s tone. He hates me. And if I’m sent away, he’ll be the only remaining heir to Father’s ridiculous throne. What he forgets though is Father isn’t top dog in the Ricci Crime Family. Uncle Antonio holds that honor, which makes our cousins, Malachi and Mortichi, next in line to inherit everything.
When I remain silent, Nicholi kicks me in the ribs. Pain ricochets through my body, zigzagging across my nerves like a lightning bolt in an electrical storm. I wheeze as I try to catch my breath, but I’m unable to inhale much air before he kicks me again. And again and again.
“That’s enough!”
Nicholi jumps back at the sound of Father’s shout, but not before shooting me an evil smirk. How he and I share the exact same DNA, I’ll never know. We’re as opposite as night and day, not that it matters.
“Nicholi, Yanni is waiting for you in the car,” Father says. “He will drive you home.”
“I don’t wanna go home.”
Father backhands him across the face. “You will do as you are told,” he sneers.
Nicholi lowers his head and folds his hands in front of him. “Yes, Father.” After a few steps, he turns around and flips me off behind Father’s back. Then he disappears out of the room.
Father stalks toward me, and the closer he gets, the darker his expression becomes. “Get up,” he commands.
I attempt to roll to my hands and knees, but the pain is too great. Father reaches down and, with a fistful of my hair, yanks my head back to an almost impossible angle.
“I said. Get. Up.” Spittle hits my cheek before he shoves me back down. “You have until the count of five to get on your goddamn feet. Trust me when I say, you don’t want me to reach five.” Taking a step back, he crosses his arms over his chest. “One.”
I try to roll over again, but only end up increasing the agony in my chest.
“Two.”
Pain often hinders a person’s ability to accomplish a certain goal, like standing up, but where pain lives, fear isn’t too far away. The thing about fear is it’s a powerful motivator and right now, I need all the motivation I can get.
“Three.”
Fearing further punishment, I push myself past the pain and scoot toward the wall. I use the surface as leverage to get up off the floor, but my progress is slow.
“Four.”
With the last of my strength, I turn to face my father, while using the wall as support to lean against. I have no doubt the man would prefer me standing on my own, but he didn’t specify. Even if he had, I don’t think I could.
Father crosses the room in two strides and towers over me. “So youcanfollow instructions.”
“Yes, sir,” I whisper.
