Chapter 3
THREE
HENRY SALMAN
Is this it? The beginning of the end?
Death stalks dumb men. The Reaper is patient, willing to play the long game in order to collect his final reward.
Am I a dumb man? Nothing more than a fool, happily strolling towards his own demise?
Nicolo Rastelli—my little brother, all grown up—walks beside me, his smile wide and dancing. Too pretty for his own damn good.
When the fuck did he grow up? What the hell is wrong with me that I’m noticing him in ways one brother should never notice another?
His fingers are laced with mine, my palm damp with sweat as I lead the way to my house after parking and locking my SUV. Not that he seems to care so long as he can cling to me, as if he’s a child again and needs my hand to feel safe in an unsafe world.
So far away from the Rastelli Family, we are safe. Or as safe as either of us can be at any given time, considering the blood that binds us to people I have long since stopped considering family. People who have decided Nicolo isn’t fit to be called family.
Corvallis, Oregon is a picture perfect college town, easy to get lost in but not so large people expect someone to get lost here, with fewer sunny days than the average American city but mild enough temperatures year round.
Right now, midway through autumn with the leaves on the trees an assortment of rich colors, afternoons usually peak around seventy-five degrees and nights rarely drop below fifty.
It’s home, and has been home for ten years.
Nicolo’s arrival could change that, if someone changes their mind about letting him walk away free and clear. I should already be on the phone with my handler, telling him about my little brother’s arrival.
Simon will be here in a matter of hours, ordering me to pack my shit and prepare to relocate.
I don’t want a new identity, or to leave the life I’ve built for myself. It’s mine. I’ve earned it, through trial by fire.
Staying means I could lose it anyway. If anyone comes looking for Nicolo and they find me instead . . .
“Sebastian?” Nicolo’s sweet voice shakes.
I jerk my head from side to side. “You can’t call me that.”
“Henry.” My name rolls off his tongue like he’s attempting to spit out something foul.
Part of me delights in his displeasure. When I was first given the name, I hated it too. I want to laugh at his disgust but I blow out a breath and free my hand from his, dig in my pocket, and pull the keys to my house free.
He waits as I unlock and open the door before stepping inside, gaze darting from one corner to the next.
Nothing here speaks to my past aside from a child’s crude drawing on the fridge—two boys holding hands with fireworks decorating the page. It’s twelve years old, faded by time and handling but still in good enough condition. No one ever asks me about it, and if they did, I’d lie. My life is an assortment of carefully told but easily forgettable by the public lies.
“Do you want something to drink?” I ask.
At the same time, Nicolo swings to face me. “Can I call you Sebastian in private?”
Letting him call me by the name assigned to me at birth is a dangerous game. A habit that could turn deadly. Not just for me, but for him as well. I should tell him no, deny him this one thing, but his face is glowing with hope as he clenches the strap of his bag.
Maybe if I really was Henry Salman—dead parents; an only child; no aunts or uncles to speak of; an orphan of the world—I could tell him no. Absolutely not. But despite what the name on my government identification says, I am in some ways, and always will be in others, Sebastian Rastelli—big brother to this young man.
“Pinky swear to use it only when we’re alone.” It’s a child’s promise, but binding. At least between the pair of us.
He grabs my hand and twists his pinky with mine. “I swear. Cross my heart.”
We each make an X over our chest.
His eyes quickly grow damp. “I . . . I never thought I’d see you again.” A tear slips free and he brushes it away with a huff. “And of course the first time you see me, I’m still a freaking crybaby.”
I grin and poke him in the side, ignoring the twinge in my lower body from any sudden movement. “Still my crybaby though, huh?”
His laugh is broken as he swats me away. “Stop it.”
I follow after him, digging my fingers into his side. “Anyone else see you leaking all over the place when Uncle Iroh sings ‘Leaves from the Vine’? Or when Appa gets kidnapped? Or when Princess Yue dies?”
His laughter echoes around my home. It’s music to my ears even as he slaps at my arms and attempts to wiggle away from my assault, as harmless as it may be. “Stop! St-Stop! See-Bastion! Mercy!”
I laugh and collapse against his back, both of us falling to our knees as I wrap myself around him, shelter him as I did so many times when he was a child. My body between his and an act of violence I can’t prevent, but can endure on his behalf.
“Nico.” He’s here—solid and real.
His chest shakes with another sob before he covers his face with his hands. “Sebastian. Bastian. I’m so happy. Why am I crying?”
I comb my fingers through his hair. “Because you’re a crybaby. Duh.”
“Shut up.” He elbows me in the stomach with zero force. If anything, it’s a love tap. The knee to the nuts I took an hour earlier hurt more. Still hurts.
I tighten my hold on his slender body and press my face into his neck. He smells like home—sandalwood and myrrh. The incense our mother used to burn. Does she still?
“How is Mama?” I whisper the question into his hair as fear tightens my throat.
What price did she have to pay for my betrayal? What price did she have to pay for Nicolo’s freedom?
The cost would’ve been steep, paid in money, blood, or worst of all, an oath of some sort, but Mama would’ve paid it without so much as a flinch. Just another hit she took with more grace than most people—man, woman or otherwise—manage.
“Uncle Vincent demanded she marry him in exchange for my freedom.” The way Nicolo whispers the confession tells me he’s ashamed of himself for not staying, not sparing our mother that nightmare.
I plant a kiss on his temple as I lay my hand over his pounding heart. “She made her choice a long time ago, when she chose our father and joined the Family as his wife, Nicolo. Accept this choice as her giving you the chance to make one for yourself.”
She fought against his baptism and won. Not for her sake, but for his. The only thing he can do is honor her choice by living his life.
He nods. We’re silent for a long moment.
Then, soft enough the words could be carried away on a breeze, Nicolo asks, “Did you miss me at all?”
The fact he has to ask breaks my heart in ways it has never been broken before.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Every day.”