PROLOGUE
Hell would look like drinking cappuccino in a local cafe at the promenade by the sea,al banco––standing at the counter––in the morning, if it weren’t for the scorching fire flaring up through my soul.
The blaze would be bliss if it weren’t for the dark and chaos she created.
The darkness would be fleetingly beautiful like a butterfly vanishing into the folds of night if it weren’t for the desecration of what’s good and principled in me.
The only spark of light in my twisted, vengeful world.
Men like me––powerful, tainted men––feel stronger than the most as they walk a path of crime.
Nothing can stop us. And no one can stop me.
Although she did.
She’s done it without changing anything about me, because she wouldn’t want to live without that version of myself.
And then, blood wouldn’t be blood if it weren’t for the spiraling into the madness and the slow destruction of our minds.
‘She was allthat to me.
And I was all that to her.’
CALLUM
1
LELANI
Nineteen yearsold
New York
Fists of clumpy,wet dirt fall over the mahogany casket, which displays an ostentatious high-gloss finish and decorative golden accents.
It looks like an advert for the most expensive funeral home in New York.The best casket money can buy.
The Gallo family has spared no expense in turning this dull, gray, rainy day into a glorious event, and ultimately, the triumphant culmination ofherbrief, volcanic life.
Lowered into the water-drenched ground with a casket spray on top––an elaborated arrangement of white lilies and roses––the container speaks of a finality that is hard to swallow.
All the drama she stirred up over half of her short life is now stifled by the silence.
So much struggle for nothing.
I hug my coat closer and drag a jaded stare over the crowd as the freezing rain pelts down. It mostly spares the people’s coats but not their fancy shoes.
Dark umbrellas that look like dome-shaped airships with broken moorings hover over their heads, providing protection and partly concealing their expressions.
Bianca Gallo,for sure, would’ve wholeheartedly resented the nasty weather if she had a say in what her big departure day would look like.
On a different note, being the shallow person that she was, she would’ve gaped in awe at the craftsmanship that went into the men’s suits.
The timeless mix of wool and cashmere, the hand-stitched lapels and buttonholes. And also the designer dresses and sophisticated overcoats draped over the women’s frames.
Silk, gossamer, luxurious crepes, and the finest wool are layered in a decadent sartorial world that speaks of opulence in no way foreign to her.
Bianca Gallo,my mother, the heiress to the Gallo empire, is nowthedeadheiress to the Gallo empire.
