Chapter 2
Two
Journal Entry
The Society gala
Eleven years old
Tap, tap, tap.
My fingers drum against the starched fabric of my trousers.
Index. Middle. Ring. Pinkie. There’s too much noise.
Too many people. The air too viscous with cloying perfume and men’s cologne, making it unbearable to breathe.
Beads of sweat pop along the back of my neck, and I yank at the bowtie that’s trying to strangle me.
“Stop fidgeting, Aleks,” Mama quietly admonishes, glancing down at me from the height of her five-inch stilettos.
I drop my hand.
Where is she? She’s supposed to be here.
Searching the sea of faces packed inside the expansive, dimly lit ballroom, I seek out the angel among the devils who have congregated for their pretentious annual get-together of self-glorification.
The Society gala is nothing more than a bunch of narcissistic megalomaniacs stroking each other’s egos, and because Aleksei and I are Nikolai Stepanoff’s only sons and heirs, we are dragged here every year and paraded about like prize-winning thoroughbreds in front of a captive audience.
It’s pathetic how much Father kisses their asses, hoping for a discarded crumb of their favor, wanting so desperately to be one of the men with a seat at the Council table.
Aleksei’s elbow jabs into my side, and he juts his chin to the right. “Two o’clock.”
My eyes move in the direction he’s indicating, and my heartbeat skitters a triple beat when my gaze lands on the blonde-haired girl sitting on the floor next to the grand piano, the ruffled skirt of her dress spread around her in a halo of blue.
Aoife Fitzpatrick.
The girl with the cornflower-blue eyes, whose smile is like sunshine. I’ve had an unrequited crush on her for years, ever since the first time I saw her.
“Stop being an idiot and go talk to her,” Aleksei whispers in my ear.
“Can’t,” I reply through clenched teeth when I see who Aoife is adoringly watching play the piano.
My skin begins to itch, and I tug at the damnable bowtie again. Somehow sensing my agitation, Mama absentmindedly pushes my hand down.
Aleksei huffs with a roll of his gray eyes and kicks the side of my leather dress shoe. Lowering his voice so Mama can’t hear, he says, “Fuck him. Tristan Amato doesn’t own her.”
He thinks he does. Him, Hendrix, and Constantine. They won’t let anyone get near her. So, I watch, and I wait, hoping that I’ll get my chance at some point tonight.
My twin shows his annoyance with my cowardly prevarication and tugs on Mama’s sequined dress. “I’m bored.”
Brushing wisps of her blonde hair from her cheek, Mama chuckles, the sound soft and lyrical. “We just got here, malysh.”
“Still bored,” Aleksei grouses, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets and hunching his shoulders.
Father turns slightly from the conversation he’s having with a group of men a few feet away, and Aleksei snaps to attention when cold blue eyes send him a threatening glare.
Mama picks up on the implied threat and takes Aleksei’s hand. “Come and dance with your mother,” she says and quickly drags Aleksei away, unintentionally leaving me there by myself on the periphery of the room.
Mama always shields us from Father’s anger, taking the punches meant for us. One day, I’ll be big enough and strong enough to stop him.
I bore my hatred into the man who sired me as he tracks Mama and Aleksei to the dance floor. As if I’m invisible, he returns his attention to the flute of champagne in his hand and the tuxedo-clad men talking around him.
Taking the opportunity, I quietly slink away and disappear into the crowd, edging my way closer to where the grand piano sits tucked in the corner on the far side of the room.
Through the music and overlapping conversations, I hear Aoife’s beautiful laughter. It draws me in, pulling my footsteps along an invisible string toward her, like the siren song from Greek mythology.
Why am I thinking about The Odyssey? Aleksei always tells me that I’m too hyperbolic about everything. That my brain is wired differently. Funny how your entire personality can be determined from a doctor’s checklist.
More mature for my age with higher than normal intelligence. Check.
Inability to maintain eye contact without feeling discomfort. Check.
Has trouble making friends or fitting in with peers. Check.
Trouble assessing social cues. Check.
Anxiety in social situations. Check.
Adherence to strict routines and has OCD and obsessive tendencies. Check.
Ability to hyper-focus on an interest and is a perfectionist. Check.
Gets frustrated with small changes in his routine or with disruptions out of the norm. Check.
Prefers to listen and observe. Check.
The man directly in front of me suddenly stops and abruptly changes direction, causing a chain reaction of people getting out of his way as he plows through them.
“Sorry,” I automatically say to the person I accidentally stumble into.
Delicately strong hands curve around my arm, and I become tongue-tied when my apologetic gaze meets ethereal pale-blue eyes. It’s difficult for me to hold eye contact, and I use one of the sensory techniques Mama has me do to help me focus.
Tap, tap, tap.
Index. Middle. Ring. Pinkie.
“Not your fault,” Aoife says, her grip steadying me and making me weak in the knees at the same time.
Everything around me collapses into a singularity, blocking out the noises and commotion in the ballroom until all that exists is her.
I open my mouth to say something…to say anything…but nothing comes out, and I have no clue how to proceed.
A smile curves her lips when all I do is stare at her like a dumbass.
Aoife cants her head, a humorous twinkle lighting her pretty face. “I don’t think I rammed into you that hard,” she jokes.
Stop acting like a weirdo and say something.
“Uh…I, uh…” I swallow down the boulder that has decided to lodge itself in my throat. My palms suddenly begin to sweat, and I wipe them dry on the tails of my tuxedo jacket. “Hi.”
Her smile widens, and the beauty of it punches me directly in the chest. “Hi back. Aleksander, right?”
Surprised that she knows I exist, let alone knows who I am, I blurt like an idiot, “How do you know I’m not Aleksei?”
Aleksei and I are identical twins. The only person who can tell us apart is Mama. Not even Father can, not like it matters. His fists don’t distinguish who they beat.
Brash and unafraid, Aoife’s fingertips gently brush across my chin, sparking a slew of goose bumps to erupt down my arms. “You have a small scar right here,” she replies, her touch stopping on the faint raised line that mars the underside of my jaw.
Again, she shocks me with that knowledge because she wouldn’t have noticed something so trivial unless she had been looking. At me.
I instinctively scratch at the scar. It was a gift from my father when I was six for mouthing off to him—or so he yelled.
Trying to come up with something to say, I reply, “I like your dress,” and immediately want to facepalm in mortification as soon as the words leave my mouth.
Not finding my lack of social skills awkward, Aoife looks down at herself, then back up at me. “Thank you. I hate wearing dresses about as much as I hate these galas.”
Finding common ground, I release a relieved chuckle. “You, too?”
Again with the smile that leaves me breathless for some reason. “Yeah. These things are boring.”
“Aleksei just said the same thing.”
Biting her bottom lip, she takes a quick glance over her shoulder. “We were about to sneak out and go to the roof. Want to come with?”
My stomach plummets. We being Tristan, Hendrix, and Constantine. There’s not a chance in hell they’ll let me join them.
Deciding it’s now or never, because I don’t know if or when I’ll get another chance, I rush out, “Do you want to dance? With me?” I clarify because I really am an idiot.
A soft blush tints color into her cheeks, but before she can answer, Tristan wedges himself between us, jealous anger raging behind his light-brown eyes.
“Back the fuck up.” He glares me down, warning me to walk away.
A warning I don’t heed because fuck him.
Tristan has always looked down on Aleksei and me, thinking he’s better than us because his family is one of the founding members of the Society and his father is on the Council.
To him, I’m nothing but a pleb who should bow in his presence and kiss the toe of his Santoni Oxford Brogue shoe.
I arch a sarcastic, challenging brow. “Seeing as I was talking to Aoife, isn’t that her choice?”
“Tristan,” Aoife says, but he ignores her.
When I don’t do what he says, he shoves me—hard. “Get away from her.”
My knuckles crack when my hands tightly clench at my sides, my desire to punch his stupid face almost overpowering my rational sense.
Father would literally kill me if I made a scene that would embarrass him in front of everyone.
Death might be worth the satisfaction of laying Tristan Amato on his arrogant ass.
“Make me,” I taunt, needing him to strike first to give me the justification of retaliating.
One thing Nikolai Stepanoff drilled into his sons since the day we were born is to never back down from a fight, regardless of who started it. Stepanoffs are to show no weakness and no mercy.
“Tristan, don’t,” Aoife implores when he advances toward me, and I smile in victory when he throws the first punch.
My head jerks to the side at the impact, and I can already feel a trickle of blood oozing from the split lip he gave me.
My retaliation in the form of a forward jab comes fast and catches him off guard.
There’s a satisfying crunch of cartilage when I break his nose, the blood that pours out like a geyser even more satisfying to watch.
“Tristan! Stop!” Aoife shouts, but her plea falls on deaf ears.
With a pissed-off snarl, he barrels into me, taking us both down onto the polished stone floor.