Prologue One, Giovanni, Aged Thirteen
Istood frozen in my father’s office, the smell of blood and sweat thick in the air. The man on the hardwood floor let out a low, broken moan, his face barely looked human. His lips were cracked and bleeding, his nose flattened into a mess, and one of his eyes was so bruised it was nearly swollen shut.
Two of my father’s men loomed over him as they finished their work. One of them—the taller one with sleeves rolled to his elbows—stepped back, shaking out his hand like he was trying to rid himself of the pain in his knuckles. The other stayed close, pressing the toe of his boot into the man’s ribs to keep him pinned down.
Normal things. In this house, anyway.
The man coughed wetly, a sound that made my stomach twist. Blood splattered onto the pristine Persian rug beneath him, staining it dark red. My mama had bought that rug last year from some boutique in Florence. She’d spent hours agonizingover its color, its design, its ‘perfect place’ in the office. She kept talking to me all about it, as though I cared about a rug. As though I knew what half of the things she said meant.
What I did know, was that I felt bad for her. Because her rug was stained. Hereffortwas ruined.
I wondered if she’d even notice the stain—or if this was just as normal to her as it was to my father.
“Giovanni,”my father snapped at me in Italian, dragging my attention away from the rug.
I looked up at him instinctively, though I already knew what I’d see. He was behind his desk, leaning casually against the edge of it, his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—the same dark shade as mine but lacking all warmth—bored into me like he was waiting for me to crack.
“Are you even listening to me?”he demanded, his voice smooth but laced with irritation.
“Yes, sir,”I said quickly, though my voice came out hoarse as I glanced at Emilio.
My younger brother was paying attention. His back was straight; his dark eyes were focused.
Emi didn’t look unhappy about having a man dying near us. He just looked… bored.
“Are you sure you’re paying attention? It doesn’t look that way to me,”Father snapped.
I wasn’t sure if he believed me, but it didn’t matter. He pushed off the desk and started walking closer, his polished leather shoes clicking against the floor with each step. He stopped just in front of me, close enough that I could feel the weight of his presence.
I swore he could see into my soul. Swore he could find the cracks inside me that I hid from everyone else.
“You’re thirteen now,”he said, his tone low, like he was explaining something simple to someone stupid.“It’s time you stopped being a boy and started acting like a man.”
I clenched my fists at my sides, trying to keep my face blank. The knot of anger and fear in my chest tightened, twisting like a blade. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to hear this. But I couldn’t show weakness—not in front of him.
He’d yelled at me last summer for crying when I fell out of my treehouse and broke my leg. There was no way he wouldn’t scream about me not following his commands.
“This family,”he continued, his hand sweeping in a broad gesture to encompass the room,“only survives because of strength. Because we do what needs to be done. And you,”—his gaze sharpened, and he jabbed a finger at me—“you need to understand that. You need to prove that.”
I wanted to scream. To tell him that I didn’t care about this family or his rules or his warped idea of what strength meant. But I kept my mouth shut. I knew better. My father didn’t tolerate disobedience. He didn’t tolerate much of anything, really—except blind loyalty.
He turned toward the man on the floor, his lip curling in disgust.“This piece of shit,” he said, nudging the man with his shoe hard enough to make him groan,“thought he could steal from us. From me.”
The word ‘me’ hung in the air. I had nothing to say. Stealing was wrong, sure. But so was murder and my father did that himself.
“That’s not okay.”I drawled.
He glanced back at me, his expression expectant.“And what happens to people who steal from us, Giovanni?”
I swallowed hard, my throat dry.“They… they pay,”I mumbled, the words tasting horrid on my tongue.
“That’s right,”he said, his voice softening slightly, though it didn’t feel like a kindness.“They pay. Because this family doesn’t forgive. And we don’t forget.”
The knot in my chest tightened further until it was nothing but a ball of fury and screams I desperately wanted to let out. I also wanted to look away, to pretend I wasn’t standing here in this room, with the man I hated most in the world looming over me. But I couldn’t.
“Come here,”he said, his voice leaving no room for argument.
My legs felt heavy, but I forced myself to move. One step. Then another.
