Prologue
Italy,Twelve years ago…
Everyone is searching and worried about me. I’ve only been home from the hospital after my treatment, and I’m still weak and frail. But I’m also tired of being confined. So I let my curiosity get the best of me.
Again.
I run through the garden trying to get away from him.
Marco, my father’s primary enforcer. The other whisper stories, when they think I can’t hear them, but they’re always drunk and louder than they should be.
The Assiasan.
“GENESIS!” I whimper as I round a corner and throw myself into a thick bush and curl up into a ball.
Footsteps stop, and I strain my vision to see past the dense foliage. I bite my lip to keep from making a sound. I can just see the edge of his boots and hear the sounds of the others searching for me.
I’ve been told not to eavesdrop, but this time what I heard was bad. The worst information I could ever possibly know.
The truth.
I’m not Alfonso Torelli’s daughter. I’m his. They have all been lying to me, and when the drunk playing cards said I was starting to look like a woman and he’d have to try me out, Marco stood up and pulled a gun on him.
“Say that again about my daughter.”
I can still see the way the man’s mocking smile froze on his face when the bullet tore through his head before lodging into the wall behind him.
“So it’s true then. Does she know?” Gino had asked, staring right into my eyes with what I thought was pity.
“NO. And she never will.” Marco put his gun away and sat back down at the card game like there wasn’t a fresh, dead body lying on the floor directly across from him.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” At Gino’s words, Marco turned to the door as I fled.
“What has happened?” I hear Papa’s voice before I smell his favorite cigar.
“She knows,” Marco growls out in response.
“Ah, Chikita?” He calls out to me.
Little one.
I’m not sure he’s ever called me anything different. I trust this man more than anyone, and he’s been lying to me all my life. I may only be ten, but I have a right to know why.
I crawl from my hiding spot and glare at Papa.
“I want to know why!” I scream at their backs.
Neither of them heard me move, and they jumped in surprise.
“Your dress,” Papa clicks his tongue in disapproval while Marco’s jaw ticks.
“Don’t speak to our father that way.” He hisses, and a single tear I’ve been fighting slips down my cheek.
“HE’S NOT MY FATHER!” I scream out my frustration.
He backhands me so hard I hit the ground.
“ENOUGH. Touch her again, and I’ll cut off your hand. When you gave her to me, it was for her protection, including from you. Leave and do not return until summoned.” Papa dismisses Marco, and the fury on his face lives in my nightmares for years.
