PROLOGUE
Matteo
Fifteen Years Old
“Have you considered having Matteo tested?”Mrs. Klein, my freshman English teacher, smiles warmly at my parents.
She’s only trying to help, but she has no idea what her help is going to cause me.
“Tested for what?” my mom asks, like she hasn’t been told the same shit a million times.
Tested for a learning disability because I can’t read properly.
Tested for ADHD because I can’t focus or sit still.
Tested for anything that will prove why I am the way I am.
“There’s no reason to have him tested,” my dad says before Mrs. Klein can answer. “He’s lazy, and we’ll take care of it at home.”
Mrs. Klein frowns. “I don’t think?—”
“We don’t pay you to think.” My dad glares at Mrs. Klein, and since he’s Andrey Antonov, known for being one of the most dangerous men in Harbor Point—hell, in all of South Florida—with a reputation of killing anyone who stands in his way, she flinches and closes her mouth. “We pay you to teach our children. So, how about you do your job, and we’ll do ours?”
“Mr. Antonov,” the guidance counselor starts.
Because I’m struggling across the board, the meeting isn’t justwith one teacher. It’s with all of them and the guidance counselor. Normally, my mom would attend, but when Andrey heard about it, he insisted on coming along.
Andrey stands, damn near knocking the chair back. “We’ll handle it,” he repeats. “When my son comes to school tomorrow, he’ll be on his best behavior.”
“It’s not about his behavior,” Mrs. Paulino, my science teacher, adds. “Matteo is such a?—”
“No?” Andrey leans over, getting in her face. “You’re telling me he’s failing all his classes besides PE, yet this isn’t about his behavior? Then, what is it about?”
I’m broken.
I can’t read.
I can’t focus.
I get frustrated.
I get angry.
But Andrey won’t accept any of those answers because that would mean one of his sons has a weakness, and the Antonovs are a powerful family with a reputation to uphold, so we couldn’t possibly have a weakness.
“I’ll do better,” I mutter, knowing nothing I say will make a difference but hoping maybe it will stop him from what I know is coming.
“You should’ve already been doing better,” Andrey says, his voice low, but his threat clear. “Let’s go.”
He grabs my arm, and I don’t bother trying to pull away. The last thing I want is to brawl with him in front of everyone. I wouldn’t put it past him to pull out his 9mm and put a bullet into my head, effectively curing my weakness.
With Mom following, Andrey drags me out of the conference room and outside. Since I’m only fifteen, my older brother, Dominick, usually drives me to school, but he left to go do some business for Andrey since I told him I had to stay after.
“When we get home, we’re going to have a conversation about embarrassing this family,” Andrey hisses.
“Andrey,” Mom murmurs, “he’s not bad. He’s just …”
Broken.
