Chapter 41
LUCA
I stood beside my father, who crossed his arms over his chest, watching the medical team work on my brother. We were the same height, six feet three inches, and had the same black hair and rugged features.
Most people hated my father, but they also respected him. It was difficult to look past his cruelty.
From an early age, I knew he was preparing me for the world’s harshness. Every scar was a lesson, a reminder of how tough I needed to become to survive. I remembered each one when I looked in the mirror. The scar on my shoulder was from his belt buckle and was a lesson in obedience.
I had a long, jagged scar on my back, the one Alex kissed the night we met. That was a lesson in selfishness. My actions had almost gotten my brother killed, and Dad whipped the shit out of me for it.
For most of my life, I was reckless and out of control. Chaos called to me, taunting me to stir up more drama.
When Marcello was born, I was eighteen months old. I didn’t remember holding him, but I had seen the pictures of my mom placing Marcello in my arms. I sat on the couch beside my parents with that crazed look in my eyes.
Back then, I knew I wasn’t normal. My cold, blue irises had a hollow look to them. And if you stared for too long, they turned a shade of blue so dark they appeared black.
My mother’s friends would comment on my looks.
They said I was adorable and would be as handsome as my father.
I had all of my father’s looks, including my serial killer stare, the same one that terrified most adults.
I noticed how people shied away from me.
Even as a teenager, girls stared at me, turning away the second I looked at them.
The girls at Astor Prep and then Harvard University begged for my cock.
But they were terrified of me. I frightened everyone, and I thrived off their fear.
It excited me. A chill would rush down my spine, my skin tingling as I sought my next victim.
Like a vampire consumed by bloodlust, I fed off their biggest fears and exposed their greatest desires.
My demons always wanted to play, but Marcello was different, untainted by evil.
When we were kids, he stole all of my parents’ attention.
I’d hated him so much I wanted him gone.
I had dreamed of all the ways I would kill him to have my parents to myself.
And by the time I was five years old, I tried to suffocate him.
I slipped through the halls of my estate, careful not to make a sound, gripping the Spider-Man pillow in my tiny hands. There wasn’t a single bit of hesitation in my footsteps. My breathing was even and controlled. I committed to my mission, and nothing would stop me.
Marcello’s bedroom was down the hall from mine. I pushed Marcello’s door open and stood in the entryway with a grin. He was napping in his bed, snoring as I approached him. A humidifier blew a mist across the room.
Even with the curtains drawn, I smelled the saltiness of the sea.
The scent of the bay permeated every inch of this house.
My clothes, even my hair and skin, smelled like salt.
I could always catch the faintest hint and loved it.
When I gazed at the bay, I felt a sense of calm wash over me. It helped quell the rage inside me.
I stood beside my brother’s bed with the pillow in my hand. “Wake up, Marcello.”
He was sound asleep, dead to the world.
I flicked his cheek with my finger. “Time to wake up.”
He groaned, and then his eyes fluttered as they met mine.
“She’s not your mom.” I hovered over him with the pillow. “She’s mine.”
Marcello squirmed as he tried to get up from the mattress, but I pushed him down, holding him with all my strength.
“Luca,” he cried, swatting at my hands.
I lowered the pillow over his face. “Shut up.”
He screamed for my parents.
“Brother,” he whined in that stupid childish voice. “Brother…”
For a moment, I hesitated, as if hearing the word brother triggered something inside me. And that brief pause saved his life.
My mother shouted behind me. Something hit the floor with a thud, and I dropped the pillow. I spun around, staring at my mother.
She had tears in her eyes, her body trembling with fear. “Luca, what are you doing to Marcello?”
“I was…”
I was going to kill him.
Juice spilled on the floor around her expensive heels. She yelled for my dad, her shrill voice sounding like nails running down a chalkboard.
“ Figlio del diavolo ,” my mother whispered, her eyes widening as they landed on me.
I was too young to understand her, but I’d never forgotten the words. In Italian, it meant son of the Devil. Her precious angel sat on his bed while I stared at her with my usual dead expression. I loved my mother more than anything in this world.
But sometimes, I felt it.
I knew I scared her, too.
My father's dress shoes pounded the Brazilian walnut floor. He stopped in the doorway, his intense gaze sweeping over the room. His eyes fell to the juice on the floor, then to me.
Dad’s jaw tightened as he burned a hole through me with his laser beams. “What did you do, Luca?”
I rolled my shoulders, giving him a bored look.
“He tried to suffocate Marcello with his pillow,” my mother said with tears streaming down her cheeks.
“It’s okay, Eva.” My dad pulled her into his arms. “The boy will learn and take it like a man.”
A typical child would have trembled in fear. But not me. The thought of punishment almost excited me. When I did terrible shit, my parents paid attention to me. They stopped making a big deal over Marcello and had to deal with my behavior.
My dad released his grip on my mom, approaching me with a snarl tugging at his mouth. “Is this true? Did you try to kill your brother?”
I nodded, not the least bit sorry.
He smacked me so hard across the cheek that my knees hit the floor, and an intense pain crawled up my legs and back. Standing over me, he kicked me lightly with his shoe. It didn’t hurt as much as the fall, but it still fucking hurt.
“Look at me, boy,” my dad growled.
I did as he instructed.
“You are my heir, Luca, but you are rotten to the core. And if you touch Marcello again, I will beat the sickness out of you.”
“I’m sorry,” I lied.
I wasn’t sorry for shit. It pissed me off I didn’t get to follow through on my plan. When I looked up at my mother, who hugged herself as she cried, I knew I’d fucked up. Because her love meant more to me than anyone. Only a mother could love someone like me.
My father shook his head. “You’re not sorry.”
He always saw right through me. Our souls were so similar that he just knew what I was thinking. I was his son in every single way that counted.
Mom grabbed Marcello from his bed and held him in her arms, planting kisses on his head and cheeks. She rocked him, and I hated him for it. I wanted to take his place.
“It’s okay, Marcello,” she whispered, stroking his dark hair. “Mommy’s here now.”
A hole ripped into my chest. I never wanted to see that look in her eyes, never wanted to feel… whatever this was again. My mom was the only person who made me feel something. I felt dead on the inside with other people, like there was a hole in place of my heart.
Dad slid his fingers beneath my chin. “One day, this kind of brutality will serve you well. Until then, you better not defy me. Do you understand me?”
I blew out a deep breath. “Yes, Father.”
“Step out of line again, and you will suffer.”
I rubbed my knees, wincing at the pain still shooting up my thighs.
He glanced down at my deliberate movements. Then, his focus was back on my face. “Pain is weakness leaving the body. Once you understand that, Luca, it doesn’t hurt as much. Toughen up. I can’t have a baby as my heir. There is no room for weakness in our world.”
“I’m not weak,” I shot back and meant every word.
“No, you’re not,” he said with the same vacant look. “One day, my son will rule the world. And I will make sure you understand the consequences of having weaknesses.”
“No weaknesses,” I muttered. “Never.”
I cupped my father’s shoulder as Carl Wellington performed his magic on Marcello. If my brother didn’t survive, it wouldn’t just break Alex. It would crush all of us. Thankfully, my father had taught me how to take the pain and use it for good. He showed me how to wield it like a weapon.
I never had a single weakness.
Not until I met Alex Wellington.
Despite our past differences, I was like my father in every way.
Years of his cruelty had hardened me into a man forged from steel.
I embraced the pain and believed I needed to atone for all of my horrible thoughts and actions.
We were both sick fucks. I enjoyed receiving his punishments as much as he liked giving them.
And as an adult, I enjoyed handing out the same misery to others.
Marcello was nothing like me.
I’d spared him years of pain because of my mother. I took the beatings when my father was at his worst. Two days before my mother’s death, I made her a promise, one I would never forget.
My mother stood on a scaffolding ladder in her studio, with her long, black hair piled on top of her head and two paintbrushes holding it up.
She always wore her hair like that when she was painting.
She was too focused on her art and couldn’t waste a second looking for a hair tie.
When she was in her element, nothing could deter her. We were a lot alike in that regard.
Marcello was eight years old and slowly following in her footsteps. He sat on the floor at an easel, his paintbrush sweeping across the canvas. Marcello was a natural artist who had our mother’s talents.
I tried to paint, but I was like my dad in every way. My book smarts would one day make me a powerful man, and I followed my father’s carefully laid plans. But I often appeased my mother by trying to paint. She was happy to see Marcello and me acting like a family in her studio.
After the time I tried to kill him, I never attempted it.
We still weren’t on the best of terms, but I tolerated him for my mom.
I liked making her happy and never wanted to hear her call me the son of the Devil again.
She loved me more when I was good, and my father loved me more when I was bad like him.
So, I learned how to share different parts of myself with my parents.
I strolled toward my mother, the stupid boat shoes she insisted I wear, slapping the floor. Her head snapped in my direction, a smile gracing her red lips. She wore a shade of lipstick that was so vibrant it looked like blood. I liked that color.
That morning, she laid out a pair of black cargo shorts and a navy blue and white striped polo shirt on my bed. She insisted I wear more casual clothes since I preferred suits like my father. He even had Brioni make custom suits in my size so we looked like twins.
“Luca,” my mother said with a smile. “Where have you been hiding?”
“I was helping Dad with something.”
I left out the part where I stuffed a wet cloth into a man’s mouth before my father beat the shit out of him for information. He never hid the violence from me. It started when I was around five years old. When I was older, he involved me in the corrupt side of his business.
My mother climbed down from the ladder and patted the top of my head. “Have you been a good boy today?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Luca,” she sighed. “What did your father make you do?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“You’re a child,” she groaned. “Go play with Drake Battle or Sonny Cormac. They’re your age, sweetie.”
I sneered at her suggestion. “I don’t like them.”
“Why not?” Mom ran her fingers through my hair, which I would have hated if it were anyone else. No one but my mother could touch me. “They’re nice to you. You should ask them to come over and go swimming.”
I shook my head. “No, I’d rather play with Dad. I don’t want to swim.”
“Honey,” she sighed, bending down to meet my height. “Your dad isn’t playing. That’s real.” Her fingers brushed my cheek. “Luca, you need to make some friends. Have a life outside this house that doesn’t involve your father.”
I rolled my shoulders, unaffected. “I don’t need friends. I have you and Dad.”
Her eyebrows knitted. “And Marcello.”
“I don’t want him,” I snapped.
She blew out an irritated breath. “The two of you don’t always get along, but you are brothers. Blood is thicker than water. Promise me, mio principe , that you will care for Marcello.”
She always called me her prince in Italian. My mother spoke English, Spanish, and Italian fluently. Her father was an immigrant from Spain, and her mother was from a small town in Italy.
“I promise,” I said to make her happy.
I found her two days later on the studio floor with her head turned to the side.
Her lips were so blue I’d never forgotten the color of death.
The stench of a rotting corpse. At that moment, I knew I had to honor her dying wish to protect Marcello.
It was the least I could do for the only person who made me feel normal.
My father gripped my bicep, pulling me out of my memories of the past. I turned to look at him, my eyebrows lifted in question.
He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “If Marcello doesn’t make it, you must marry her immediately. Do you understand me?”
I nodded.
“The wolves will come, and I’m not talking about the Albanians. We can’t allow our family to have a moment of weakness. Everyone will want blood.”
“Understood, Father.”