Sometimes, late at night, born out of sheer frustration, I think about what it would be like to keep her. Really keep her. Lock the doors and close the curtains and never let anyone else see her again.
I would take such good care of her.
All the Montoni power in Malus, and I want it for one reason only.
Mina.
She’s gazing up at me with a trusting, open expression on her sweet face.
“Mina,” I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended.
“Yes?”
Tell her you love her. Tell her you want her. Tell her you think about her every second of every day and you’ll never stop.
“Nothing,” I say, swallowing my hunger. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
For being the only person who makes life bearable.
“For doing my bidding, Puck,” I say, and manage something that’s almost a smile.
She laughs and curtsies. “See, I knew you were Oberon.”
The tension breaks, and we keep walking toward the house that I hate, the family that doesn’t see me, and the life that means nothing without her.
We’re close to the gates when I hear it.
My father’s voice raised in fury. Not the words, because we’re too far away, but the tone. That thundering roar that means the wrath of hell cannot compare to what my father is unleashing. Then my mother, wailing, shrieking, the high-pitched hysteria. Her screams are pitiful and heart-wrenching, but I know better than to go to her. She flinches whenever she lays eyes on me.
A door slams. The sound echoes across the grounds.
Mina’s steps slow, and she casts a worried glance at me. “Don’t go in the house, Cristiano. Please.”
She knows what happens when my father is in one of his moods and I’m within reach.
“Come on,” I say, grasping her hand. “Let’s go to our spot.”
I steer her away from the front entrance, toward the garden path that winds along the side of the house. The shouting fades as we move farther from the main building, muffled by walls and distance.
I glance up at the windows as we pass. There’s Adora, my eleven-year-old sister, sitting at her window with her headphones on. She’s bent over a textbook, pen moving steadily, completely absorbed in her homework. She doesn’t look up as the shouting continues, and I don’t blame her. She’s found her own way to survive this house, retreating into schoolwork and her own private world where the screaming can’t reach her. Our mother protects her, shields her, and wraps her in a cocoon of affection that never extends to me.
Once I overheard Mom speaking to Nonna in furtive, fearful tones.
He looks more like his father every day.
I have his eyes, his jaw, his temper. When my mother looks at me, she doesn’t see her son. She sees the man she’s afraid of. She flinches. She looks away. She saves her softness for Adora and leaves me with nothing but the echo of my father’s rage in my ears.
But it’s fine.
Because I have Mina.
The spot is at the far end of the garden, where a stone bench sits in a hollow surrounded by overgrown hedges. It’s invisible from the house. No one comes here but us.
It’s my favorite place in the world, not because it’s beautiful, but because when we’re here, I have her all to myself. No teachers interrupting us, none of her friends trying to get her attention, no Dad disapproving of me spending time with the housekeeper’s daughter. Just Mina and me and the quiet rustle of leaves.
She settles onto the bench, pulling her knees up to her chest. “What do you think they were fighting about?” she asks softly.
