Azrael (CARRERA FAMILY #2)

Prologue

Azrael

Age ten …

My mouth is dry and my stomach empty. I discarded the meager contents during the night, knowing today is the day I will carry out one of the worst acts a son could commit.

As I enter the family kitchen, my nonna’s dark eyes settle on me.

She’s busying herself as usual, pounding the dough with her wrinkled fist before flipping it over and repeating the process.

My father, no doubt, believes her actions are a way of celebrating, but I see differently; I see the tremor in her movements, the twitch in her eyes when she’s nervous and hyperalert.

She says me noticing these things proves I have good in my soul and humility in my veins, and I should never let the evil fully take over.

She even calls me “la mia luce,” her light.

I don’t see how that’s possible, living here in my father’s mansion, “Casa Forte” as he likes to call it, especially when he insists on destroying every spark of happiness in a blink of an eye with his brutality.

He takes pride in his cruel actions, says it makes him more of a man and proves his worth in our society; therefore, he encourages us to do the same.

Her soft eyes plead with mine, the blackness of them holds something more than the familiar barbarity my siblings and I have become accustomed to, and not for the first time, I hope I don’t become the devil I’m named after, but rather a savior of the damned.

Nonna reaches over the counter and squeezes my hand, and I flinch at the contact. Being dealt with such affection is alien to me, unwelcome almost. Still, her warmth settles my racing heart and the way my blood flows wildly through my veins like a tsunami.

“You have a light in your soul, Azrael. I see it,” she declares, the same way she has many times before now, only this time feels different.

There’s urgency in her tone. “When all you see is darkness, find the brightest star in the sky.” Her bony finger shakes as she points toward the patio where blackness envelopes us.

Still, the crack of dawn has not yet broken.

“There, you will find your light, your goodness; it’s in here too.

” She places her wrinkled hand over the steady thrum of my heart. “Find me.”

When her hand slips away, coldness seeps into my veins, and I replay her words. “Find me.” What does she mean by that?

“There’s light, Azrael, and where there’s light, there’s hope.”

I shake my head to tell her there’s no hope, no light despite wanting to believe it with everything I am.

I’m the heir to the Carrera family, bound by the poison in my veins and the darkness in my soul. Bound for an eternity to hell and moral destruction.

She must see the determination radiating from inside me because her shoulders droop, and I despise myself for causing her disappointment.

Why do I crave her softness and approval so much when I know I will be damned for it?

Broadening my shoulders and standing straighter, I proclaim the words my father has had me repeating from the moment I could speak a sentence. “I’m Azrael Carrera, the devil in the dark. This is my destiny.” My voice is monotone, cold and detached, almost dead, just like his, the man I loathe.

It’s exactly how I’ve been trained to be. Heartless.

She shakes her head venomously, her stare so intense I swallow with uncertainty.

“You are no such thing.” She grips the collar of my shirt, stunning me frozen to the spot as her face twists in outrage.

“Never!” she exclaims, speaking louder than ever before.

“You’re so much more. Do you hear me, Azrael? ”

My nonna has always been a quiet, meek, and gentle woman.

The perfect obedient wife, as you would expect in La Familia.

She’s grown frail with age, but right now, the strength emanates from her in undefeated waves.

“You have light. I see it in your eyes, and with light, comes hope.” Tears pool in her orbs, but they do not fall, and for that, I am thankful.

Tears are my weakness, and she knows this.

“You will guide your siblings toward the light, Azrael. That is your duty as heir, to protect them always.” She speaks as if she will not witness it, and I suppose she won’t.

She’s been unwell for years now, and my father says he should put her out of her misery but then smiles like the callous bastard he is and says she’s undeserving of such an act.

Her hand releases me, and I rub over my heart, still experiencing the unfamiliar warmth of her touch.

“Here, take this.” She struggles as she slips a gold ring from her crooked finger, the one with a black stone in the center.

Then she grabs a hold of my hand, stunning me, and places the ring into my palm and curls my fingers around it until I make a fist while I remain motionless, staring down at the action.

Her warmth seeps into my skin, and I relish it, a touch so unfamiliar to me it feels as if it’s melting away the icy barrier I keep between us, and I’m unsure whether I like the intrusion or not; it’s a weakness neither one of us can afford.

“A reminder: where there’s darkness, there is light. It’s my promise to you, Azrael. I will remain your guide, and your promise to me is to never let anything extinguish it.” Her bottom lip trembles as I turn the ring between my fingers, then slip it into my pants pocket.

A throat clears from behind her, and I lock eyes with one of my father’s men.

“They’re ready.” I give him a terse nod, and without giving Nonna another glance, I follow behind him, but I don’t miss the harrowing sob she releases as we head out of the kitchen and down the stone staircase to the basement.

The sound sends a shiver of fear up my spine, and I swallow back the ball of dread lodging in my throat during our descent.

My legs become weak, but I somehow remain composed, exactly how I’ve been trained to.

I’m about to become the devil, when all I want to be is the boy my nonna believes me to be. But I’m no savior. Today will become proof of that.

Men line the basement walls with their arms behind their backs in a mark of respect I wish was not bestowed upon me—their heads lowered, and not one of them acknowledges my arrival.

Breathing through my nose, I walk farther into the room, and my father steps forward, his dark glaring eyes, which I’ve grown to despise, are a mirror of my own; scrutinizing me, warning me of retribution should I fuck this up. My stomach does a weird flip at the prospect of letting him down.

I can’t let him down.

My mother’s sobs echo around the room from her kneeling position on the concrete floor, but I barely pay her any attention. I’m aware she will be covered in filth, naked, beaten within an inch of her miserable life. Raw and exposed for all to see. Used and disposed of.

I’m only too grateful I missed the worst of it.

Hearing her pleas as they torture and abuse her never bodes well with me.

My father sees it as a weakness, of course, and has insisted on me being present when these things happen and encourages me to engage in the abuse.

Something I struggle with immensely, which leaves me torn between him inflicting it on me for not complying or participating in something that causes me to vomit and have nightmares.

Her humiliation is one of my father’s greatest pastimes, and I refuse to give it the attention he craves. Instead, I remain composed when all I feel is brokenness.

My nonna says the battle inside me between good and evil keeps me from becoming the devil incarnate, but sometimes, I wonder if it would be easier to just hand myself over to him fully and immerse myself in the carved path of my destiny.

Why make it difficult for myself when it’s inevitable anyway?

“Benito, please don’t make him do this!” she cries, and her bare chest heaves. “I beg you.” The desperation in her voice is clear, and pointless at this stage, but my father chuckles. “You sick son of a bitch!” she spits with all her might.

He lashes out, gripping her hair and yanking her head back, then he slaps her across the face so hard her skin must burn at the impact.

My feet beg me to step forward, but I remain frozen to the spot.

Blood and spittle fly across the room, but somehow, the woman I call mother remains conscious as he releases her in a heavy slump.

My younger brother, Czar, fidgets with his hands in front of him; his body radiates angst, and I only hope my father doesn’t witness the action.

His emotions always become the best of him, and Father says this proves how weak he is, but Nonna says he’s a stronger man for it, that showing compassion can win you the strength of others too.

That you’re seen as much more than someone to fear but someone to believe in.

Instead of recognizing Czar’s movements, my father is too enthralled by what’s to come. He snaps his fingers, and his right-hand man, Vector, steps forward with a black satin pillow, and resting on top of it is a silver revolver.

My father’s eyes bore into me, and I sense the weight of his sinister glare down to my bones.

“Today, you become a man, my son. The devil will rise!” he announces as his gaze swings around the room, and he lifts his hand for his men to applaud me.

Sickness wells in my stomach, and I will it to stay down; surely, there’s no more to expel.

Please, no.

The pillow is thrust in my direction, and my father’s chest makes a rumbling noise before he leans down to my ear, and his words are whispered in a violent promise. “You best not disappoint me, boy. Serve your Familia and prove your worth.” He spits out the latter.

My hand shakes as I reach out and grab the hefty metal from the pillow. It seems heavier than ever before, and my heart thuds, unbalancing me as I slowly turn to face my mother.

Lifting the gun has me wanting to cry out, to beg someone to step in and stop me, kill me even, and put me out of what is sure to be a lifetime of misery on repeat.