Or Rocco Ferro?
Two names surface from the depths of my memory. Along with them comes fear.
Snow’s eyes fix on me as if he can hear my thoughts. After a moment, he says,
"You could have escaped them anytime you wanted."
I jerk my head up, shocked he actually changed the topic to what was in my head. What is going on here?
But I choose to respond anyway, and I give him a nod.
"They threatened to kill your family, so you stayed."
Another nod.
Snow hesitates, his fingers still gliding over the keys, and the melody takes on a somewhat darker tone.
"But what if you just killed them all, Summer? Every member of the mafia. They couldn’t stop you if they tried."
I tilt my head, trying to read his face, but get nothing. All I have is the music he plays. Why did he ask that? Is this a test of my character or something else entirely?
I stare at him for a few seconds. I guess I have to do it again: suffer. So I push through the pain and force out the words.
"Then I’d be a public threat. A monster. The FBI and the military would all come for me—" the final words are barely more than a whisper.
Snow gives a rueful smile and a slight shrug.
"Does it bother you that with all this power you have to live a low-key life?"
His question has a strange intensity to it, as if the answer matters a great deal.
I stare at him for a moment, a slight sense of sadness rising within me. And even some anger at the world, at the fact that I have no choice but to take what life gives me. Then I shake my head.
Maybe no one would ever understand.
What I want is… simple.
But in my case, ‘simple’, ‘normal’, and ‘ordinary’ equal… amiracle. A true miracle. That’s never going to happen for me.
Sighing, I walk toward the door, the book in my hand. With my fingers on the handle, I turn back and whisper once more, fighting through the ache,
"I just want to be happy."
Then I leave.
???
I spend the rest of the day on my laptop, reading random stuff about mages and the mafia.
Then, I wander around the room a bit, poking through the lower drawers. They’re full of things left behind by the previous tenant, stuff he probably didn’t care enough to take when he moved out. A backpack, a jacket, some sports shoes, and… a pile of old notebooks.
I flip through them without much thought. A lot of them are handwritten, little programs in Python, or at least I think it’s Python. Some are class notes from history or biology. And then I find a single photo.
It shows a massive guy with burgundy hair, looks to me like a purple alpha, standing next to a tall, skinny guy with a horriblyburned face. Half of it is covered in ugly scars, and one eye is clearly damaged, faded.
Whoa. I flip the picture over.
Storm & Nathaniel.
