PROLOGUE
ISABELLA
The library was my favorite place in the entire world. Right behind the leather sofa, next to Nonno’s massive desk, was a spot where the floor was cozy and warm.
I’d found the perfect reading nook and the perfect hiding spot since nobody apart from my grandpa and me used the library. But now Nonno would never use it again. I buried myself deeper in the thick carpet, which muffled any sounds, and inhaled deeply. Would the scent disappear, as well?
I hated all the people in our house, hated how everybody was laughing while telling stories about Grandpa, and I just wanted to not think about how he hadn’t even looked like himself in that casket.
I sucked in air and stopped the tears in my eyes. The leather smell mixed with old books, and the faint lingering of Nonno’s cigarettes made me feel safe. Made me feel as if he was still around.
I turned another page ofAround the World in Eighty Daysand focused on the adventure. How would it feel to just be free to travel the world?
Suddenly, the door creaked open, and heavy footsteps broke through my bubble. My whole body tensed. Those weren’t my brother Vince’s quick steps, Matteo’s stomping, or my father’s heavy steps. They were slower, deliberate, with a slight limp.
Uncle Marcus. He wasn’t really my uncle—just one of Father’s friends—but he insisted we call him that. But something about the way he looked at me made my skin feel wrong.
I pressed deeper into my hiding spot as his polished shoes appeared in my line of sight. He settled onto the sofa, the leather creaking. The sound of a laptop opening followed.
Dust tickled my nose.No, no, no.I pressed my face into my book, trying to hold back the sneeze, but it was no use.
The sneeze came before I could stop it.
I squeezed my eyes shut but could see the shadow that fell over me through my closed eyelids.
“Well, well.” Uncle Marcus’s voice carried that fake sweetness that always made my skin crawl. “Who do we have here? Come out, little girl. Let me see you.”
Everything inside me screamed to stay hidden, but years of being told to respect Father’s friends made my body move on its own.
“There’s my favorite little princess.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Come, sit with me.” He patted the place beside him. “You’re very sad, aren’t you?”
I clutched my book against my chest like a shield. My feet felt heavy as I approached. I perched on the edge of the sofa, keeping as much distance from him as possible.
He put his laptop on the small table. On his screen, a video played—a boxing ring—but not like the ones my older brothers Vince and Hero watched. This one was dirty, the lighting dim with a fence around it. And the fighters—my breath caught—they were kids. Some looked barely older than Mira and me; one looked a lot like that girl who had been attached by the hip to my brother Matt in every one of his kindergarten pictures. That girl had allegedly been his best friend until she moved away when her mother fell in love with some Russian oligarch and ran away with him—at least that’s what I’d overheard—whatever an oligarch was.
Uncle Marcus’s hand landed on my knee. I forced myself to become stone, like the marble statues in the garden. My mind separated from my body, focusing entirely on the screen.
One boy stood out. Older than the others, a teenager. He moved like a wild animal, but there was purpose in his violence. Every time the smaller kids were targeted, he drew the attention back to himself. Blood ran down his face, but the expression on his face burned with determination. And I immediately wanted to help him.
“Your nonno is now in heaven, but you miss him, don’t you?” Uncle Marcus’s voice was too close to my ear. His breath made a shiver run down my spine. His hand moved up my thigh, hiking my black skirt up?—
I stared at the screen, focused on the URL above the video—the string of numbers and characters. I liked numbers. Numbers were interesting. Numbers were safe.
He touched me…right there, and I strung the numbers and characters over and over in my head while watching the boy. He wasn’t scared, wasn’t frozen, unable to move. He was a fighter. Three boys were pummeling him, and blood was everywhere. He grabbed one of them around the neck, and a second later, the boy’s limp body fell to the ground. I squeezed my eyelids closed.
The hand touched me, under my skirt. Too much.
The library door burst open. Father’s voice boomed, “Marcus! There you are.”
The hand disappeared.
The laptop lid closed.
I jumped up, and my book clattered to the floor, but I didn’t care. I bolted from the room as fast as I could. I dodged my father and avoided the front of the house where people were gathered; instead, I took the back stairs. My feet carried me to Vince’s room automatically.
He wasn’t there, but I knew his computer password—Hero had taught me how to crack it last month. He was the only one who knew I liked numbers and computers.
My hands shook as I opened a browser just like Hero had shown me and typed in the string of characters and numbers. A login page appeared.
