I hesitate, then type what’s been really gnawing at me since this morning.
Me
Who’s Nestor Vasilios?
It takes him a full minute to reply.
Matteo
Stay out of trouble.
That’s it. No “How do you know that name?” or “Why do you know that name?” Just a command.
My thumbs fly across the keyboard as I itch to push for more information. Matteo is like the human form of an encyclopedia of information about people.
Me
???
Matteo?
The screen says,Read 11:04 p.m. Then nothing.
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again. Gone.
The rain gets louder.
I stare at the phone until the glow starts to hurt my eyes. The silence between us stretches, familiar and suffocating. He’s gotten more reclusive since Ma’s death. I don’t know if he’ll come around, because this has happened before. When Pops died.
He went radio silent on me, shut me out, and only talked to me when necessary. I don’t know why my brothers are doing this to me; I don’t have anyone other than them after Ma’s death. Lucio’s betrayal cuts deeper than I’d like to admit, Emiliano is growing more suspicious and volatile by the second, and Matteo? He’s just shutting me out.
Power corrupts, but it also erodes relationships. My brothers were once dependable, but now I feel more alone than ever. And I don’t know if I’ll ever feel like I can depend on them again. I can’t even trust that they won’t ship me off somewhere every time it gets tough.
They pretend the isolation will protect me, make me safe, but I know what this truly is. It’s control.
I toss the phone onto the bed and press my palms into my eyes. The inside of my head hums with all the things everybody tells me.
Stay out of it.
Everyone says the same thing, just in different ways. Nicolo says it with his eyes. Matteo says it with warnings. Even the storm raging outside my window says it with thunder.
And maybe everyone’s right. But I’ve been too stubborn in my own ways to realize that no matter how hard I fight, nothing will ever change.
32
NICOLO
THREE DAYS LATER
The storm hasn’t stopped in three days. It crawls over the Castello like a living thing: gnawing at the stone, seeping through the cracks, making the air thick and heavy with the scent of rain. Lightning flashes through the window, cutting through the dark in clean, merciless lines.
I haven’t slept. My desk is a graveyard of half-empty glasses, open files, and a phone that won’t stop vibrating. When it rings for the third time in ten minutes, I pick it up without checking the screen.
“What?”
Silence first, then a voice I know too well. Emiliano Folonari.
“Keep your end of the deal, Esposito.” His tone isn’t angry. It’s measured. Deliberate. Calmer than it has been for months.
