Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
My dad released his grip on my mom, approaching me with a snarl tugging at his mouth. “Is this true? Did you try to kill your brother?”
I nodded, not the least bit sorry.
He smacked me so hard across the cheek my knees hit the floor, and an intense pain crawled up my legs and back. Standing over me, he kicked me lightly with his shoe. It didn’t hurt as much as the fall, but it still fucking hurt.
“Look at me, boy,” my 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. It pissed me off I didn’t get to follow through on my plan. 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 just knew what I was thinking. I was his son in every single way that counted.
Mom grabbed Marcello from his bed and held him in her arms, planting kisses on the top of his head and cheeks. She rocked him, and I hated him for it. I wanted to take his place.
“It’s okay, Marcello,” she whispered as she stroked his dark hair. “Mommy’s here now.”
A hole ripped into my chest. 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,” I shot back and meant every word.
“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 for having weaknesses.”
“No weaknesses,” I muttered. “Never.”
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 Wellington.
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 liked 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.
It was the end of the summer, right before my tenth birthday. 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 hair tie, 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. Marcello 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.