“When I said you could date, Damiano is off-limits!” I chuckle and shake my head. I reach for my phone to text said man, letting him know I’ll be there.
As I enter my bedroom, my phone buzzes in my hand as his reply comes almost instantaneously.
“I can't stand the urge to see you.”
I bite my lip, staring at the screen, guilt warring with the excitement.
Sorry, Mateo.
Chapter 5
Katarina
By the time I finish getting ready, it’s already 8 in the evening.
I give my outfit and makeup a final check in the mirror. Deciding against a dress, I went with black jeans and knee-high boots. My dark red bustier, with its gold chain straps, sits perfectly atop my high-waisted jeans. I add my favorite gold heart-shaped necklace—the one Mateo gave me on my 18th birthday—and keep the makeup simple: a sharp cat-eye and blood-red lips to match my top.
I grab my purse and phone, ready to head out, when Damiano’s name flashes on my screen.
“What’s taking you so long?”
A smile slips out before I can stop it, and I scold myself. I ignore his text. Why is he so clingy all of a sudden anyway?
“I’m leaving!” I announce, walking into the living room.
I expect a “Bring your pepper spray” reminder from Mateo, like he always does, but it doesn’t come.
That’s odd.
I check my phone again—8:10 p.m.
He can’t be asleep. Mateo is an insomniac. He doesn't sleep until the wee hours of the night.
“Teo?” I call out. I walk toward his office and see that his door is slightly ajar.
When I step into the room, the worldstops.
The first thing I see is his back. His massive body lies face down on the Persian rug.
Color drains from the room, leaving everything in stark black-and-white.
I stare at my brother, willing him to move. To push himself up from the floor and laugh.
But he doesn’t.
The blood drains from my face, and I feel the chill. I force my feet to walk, but nothing happens. Instead, my hands fall limp beside my body, dropping my purse and my phone.
“Mateo!” The sound finally tears from my throat. I fall to my knees, my hands gripping his shoulders, trying to nudge him awake. I push his heavy body, turning him over so I can see his face.
That’s when I see it.
A small hole from a well of blood in his chest, soaking his white T-shirt.
“NO!” My hands start to tremble, and my throat starts to close. I scream, but I can’t hear anything. My shaking fingers reach for his neck to search for his pulse. I find it—weak and thready, but it’s there.
He’s alive.
“CPR,” I whisper through chattering teeth. “I need to do CPR.”
