Before her death, I never knew shame could cling to my body like a second skin. And I’m reminded of this deep shame every time I glimpse at myself in the mirror.
The truth is, ever since my mom disclosed the circumstances under which I created, my mental stability’s dangled by a single thread. For years, I’ve indulged in every available distraction to keep my mind off the shocking revelation.
And when I fail, despair beats down on me like a drum. Occasionally, I fantasize about waking up in the middle of the night and waltzing from room to room while emptying a container of gasoline before tossing a lit match.
I dream of a blaze big enough to consume every person who associates themselves with the monsters who kept my mother caged here.
The same people who’ve keptmecaged here, all my life.
Useless frustration and despair well up in my chest. I can’t stand this place. Maybe one day I’ll get lucky and a rogue tornado will descend on the city, targeting only this estate and leveling the entire building to the ground.
A girl can dream, anyway.
The muscles in my hand cramp, protesting the lack of breaks in my hours-long painting session. Setting the brush down and cracking my knuckles, I leave my post in search of the silver water pitcher. It sits on my art cabinet, sunlight glinting off its curved body.
While I pour a glass and gulp down a few icy, brain-freeze-worthy swallows, Mae drifts over to my easel. Her small gasp distracts me from my screwed-up mafia family.
“Oh, Kiara…” Tears line her round, expressive eyes. “It’s beautiful. Your mother, she…she would have been so?—”
The door to my painting studio explodes open.
Fear clamps onto my arms and legs, trapping me in place.
Mae’s worked here longer than I’ve been alive, but she still scurries backward like an out-of-place background character whenever a De Luca man appears.
Unlike Mae, I refuse to retreat. Instead, I move in front of her as heavy, Italian leather boots stride with purposeful steps into the room. Experience has taught me that hiding is a waste of time. There’s nowhere on the estate where this monster won’t find me, and he gets off on the sight of my fear.
Despite my resolve, the sight of my tormenter’s long, sharp features shrinks my lungs to a microscopic size, along with the breaths I take.
He’s the spitting image of his scumbag father. Brown eyes darker than ink are set deep into his unforgiving, scowling face. His blade-like nose points straight down to a thin, unforgiving mouth that’s usually fixed in a cruel sneer. His olive skin matches mine.
Rings line his long, vicious fingers. Family tattoos cover his neck and forearms. His nails are long, too, and usually tinged with blood around the edges.
It’s as if he commits so much evil that no amount of soap and water could ever wash his hands clean.
The monster is my half-brother. Leonardo De Luca.
Leo.
Even in the privacy of my own mind, I only whisper his name, just in case thinking it louder might conjure him into materializing like some demented mafia Voldemort.
Leo’s like that. Almost clairvoyant, in the worst possible way.
Today, he reeks of sweat and a sweet, cloying perfume, which can only mean he’s come straight here after some sexual escapade.
Gag. My stomach recoils from the idea of him in bed with a woman. My first impulse is to pity whoever she is. For all I know, the blood under his fingernails is hers.
If he’s anything like his father, andhe is,he may have forced himself on her.
The thought kills me inside.
Worst of all, though, is that tiny relieved part of me. The plain, horrible truth is, Leo’s less violent around me after he’s satisfied himself with someone else.
The relief fills me with a torrent of self-loathing, but mostly I’m anxious.
I’m always anxious in his presence. I just try my best to never show it.
Leo wades into the room uninvited, poisoning the air around him.
