I brought crimson-stained hands to my hair, pushing stray strands away from my sweat-drenched forehead and glanced down at my clothes covered in gore that used to be my brother. My breath stuttered for just a moment before my gaze moved to his head. Mateo’s face was still perfect, minus the splashes of blood and flesh. His open eyes, glassy and devoid of emotion, stared at me as though they judged me.
Forgive me refused to push through my grinding my teeth and I bit my cheek harder, filling my mouth with the metal taste of blood, letting it coat my teeth in its fiery reminder that something dark, evil and downright scary had taken hold of my mind, body and soul. Whether I had the courage to fight it, remained to be seen.
My heart a harsh drone, my pulse an erratic beat, my skin a mess of red sweat, I turned to face the queen bitch. “Satisfied, mother?” I asked, my anger-induced voice an unmistakable growl, catching her off guard.
Stunned, she stared at me, and I was sure a hint of hesitation passed over her face for just a second. “Such an innocent face yet your soul appears blacker than mine, Remo.” She stood. “Perhaps you’ll make a fine king one day, always serving your queen and the Rossi empire.”
Hate pissed through my veins, despising the insinuation only I’d understand. “Never! Lorenzo will surpass you in his reign.” The words sizzled out with a roughened bite I’d only ever heard him use on her.
She threw back her head, her cackle echoing through her murdering fort, reminding me of a witch’s coven. Yet, when she looked at me again, there was no mistaking the underlying uncertainty. Lorenzo was the only person who could unsettleher. He never hesitated to challenge her, and I knew that one day, he’d take from her what belonged to us.
La famiglia.
Hadn’t she done the same thing, taking what belonged to Mateo after she killed my father and what in succession, would belong to Lorenzo. Perhaps that’s what she feared.
She crossed the room to my side and when her hand settled on my shoulder, I shrugged it off, my gaze pinned to hers, my sneer menacing. I caught her surprised flinch.
“The eyes are the windows to the soul,predilettobut yours…” Slowly, she shook her head, her expression thoughtful. “They say nothing, not even a hint of remorse.” She glanced at Frank. “Ho creato un mostro, fratello?” her voice lacked its usual authority, asking if him if she’d created a monster. Then her gaze came back to mine, her expression unreadable before she walked away. “Get rid of it,” she ordered one of her soldiers over her shoulder, not sparing my brother’s remains a glimpse.
Gaze still riveted on the door she’d exited, I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up.
Frank chuckled, slowly shaking his head from side to side. “You did well today,il mostro,” I heard the admiration in his voice, calling me the monster. “You scare her.”
Good.
Because the innocence she’d stolen today, replacing it with the devil’s spawn, would haunt her for the rest of her life. Because everyone knew I was her favorite and sometimes, favorites got away with murder.
“That.” Frank pointed to the machete I’d dropped. “IsVerità.”
“Truth?” I asked, frowning that a weapon had a name.
He nodded. “It belonged to your grandfather’s father and his father before him and allegedly, the second its victims saw the dark threat, they spoke the truth, mumbled it, screamed andbegged the sword to believe them, to spare their lives. It never did.”
Intrigued, I bent down, picked up the weapon and studied it, my anger hazing my vision much like the design on the blood covered blade.
“Made from Damascus steel, a pattern created by forging different types of iron and steel together. It’s famous for its strength, sharpness and resilience, much like what I see in you, Remo.” Frank crouched in front of me, grasping my arms. “Respect the blade, son and it will serve you well over time.”
Slowly, I nodded, my eyes drifting from him to the blade. “We’ll be partners for life,” I whispered, gripping the handle tight, welcoming its weight.
“Vieni, Remo?” Someone behind me asked if I was coming.
I glanced over my shoulder as Uncle Frank stood. Two men were clearing the last of my brother’s body. “Si,” I growled, wanting to see what they planned to do with it.
Later, I stood on the edge of mountainside at the back of the estate, my thoughts chaotic. Having just returned from watching Mother’s soldiers toss Mateo’s remains to the sharks, I begged my body to mourn, to cry, to show some kind of emotion.
It refused.
Inhales slow and steady, I stared down at my blood-soaked hands, a hypnotizing contrast to the dark waves tipped with white foam below. The red stain would wash off after a good scrub but the mark on my soul, that would remain indelible.
Then my lips parted in a slow smile and in that moment, I accepted my fate.
Sometimes a monster is created by the blood that binds him.
one
. . .
Remo– 36 years old
