46. Hendrix
Hendrix
I ’ve always wondered what would happen if humans were met at a crossroads. One to an endless road to happiness, the other an endless ladder to power.
How much would we, as a species fundamentally designed to connect, be willing to sacrifice for a chance to be on top?
Would we give up love for money? Friendship for prestige? Simplicity for reputation?
Would we even know what we’d be missing?
I learned the hard way recently that power isn’t strength, it’s a form of addiction.
The higher you are, the deadlier the fall.
A fall that usually comes from those you least expected.
The Roman Empire, defeated by barbarians.
Mussolini by the very regime he created.
Goliath by David.
The ones who sacrificed power by the endless road to happiness…
“Well, fuck you too.” I whack the door to Saint’s empty mini fridge closed, too thirsty and groggy to remember he’s asleep until there’s stirring from the bed.
“Shit,” I hiss, frozen in place as Saint mutters something inaudible, throwing the blanket off his naked body.
Per Bex’s astonishment earlier, Saint got to my dorm room all the way from his less than two minutes after she called him.
I was mid hyperventilating, being crowded over by her and Archer who, against their best efforts, could not get me to calm down.
It wasn’t their fault, they’ve barely seen me since I left the hospital, and it’s not like my panic attacks were something any of us were used to during our friendship.
Saint, on the other hand, has been living alongside them ever since Carlo died, adding Google to the list of occupants in the room when I’d spiral.
Which is why he was able to calm me enough to get us back to the mansion, where we spent the rest of the evening locked in his room, naked, flesh-to-flesh as I breathed him in.
Then eventually fell asleep against his chest.
Not so fun fact—post panic attack thirst is a lot like post sex thirst, but with none of the benefits.
Saint’s breaths are evened out by the time I throw my oversized Black Panther hoodie over my head, and are moving on to snores as I shimmy my underwear and leggings past my hips.
I check my cell to find it’s just past midnight, at least two hours later than my mom, auntie, and Vic usually fall asleep on a weekday. Which makes this the perfect time to get in and out of the kitchen without having to deal with questions about the state I was in when I came home.
The taste of cold water is all I can think about as I shove the phone in my pocket and creep toward the door, twisting it open inch by inch with a watchful eye on Saint. Then, when it’s wide enough for me to slip through, I do just that and click it shut behind me.
My eyes barely get the chance to adjust to the light before I start tiptoeing down the hall, stopping briefly in front of Theory’s room to see if she’s awake. I’ve got one ear on the door, ready to suggest a late night snacky chat if I hear any movement.
When I don’t, I shrug, kind of bummed, but keep it moving toward the spiral steps, taking them down slowly in an attempt to stay on the lookout.
From the fourth to the second floor, not a soul or a noise other than creaky floorboards can be heard, upgrading tiptoes into confident hops as I turn onto the staircase to the darkened foyer.
Halfway down, I’m all but whistling when the sound of hushed voices comes from the dimly lit living room. One of them belonging to a man with a thick, Italian accent. I root to the spot, breath held and eyes wide as I contemplate turning or snooping.
The decision gets made for me by approaching footsteps from the kitchen, so I practically jump down the last few steps and hide behind Saint Joseph.
The statue, obviously.
It’s not until the footsteps pass us that I dare to sneak a peek, finding Darla carrying a tray of drinks into the living room.
Her face is drawn, hands trembling in a way that tells me there’s sweat beading at the collar of her uniform.
What the shit?
For as long as I’ve known the Lavells’ housekeeper, never once has she ventured outside her usual collected disposition. Not even during Saint’s many… outbursts . Hell, mine neither. If Darla was there, she’d remain in the background, hands folded and waiting to be told how she can help.
Which is why seeing her this flustered flusters me too.
Because whoever this man is…he must be dangerous.
“How dare you try to do this now!” Mom whisper-shouts. “After everything she’s been through.”
“Try?” The man chuckles deep. “Oh, my sweet, s weet fiore . You should be lucky I even come here to give- eh you the warning.”
“No. There has to be another way.”
“There was another way, but you chose the wrong man.”
“Please. Don’t do this. Just give me a little more time.”
“The time for the negotiations and the begging is done. I’ve been patient enough for you. Moving forward, we do things my way. The right way.”
Warnings? Negotiations? Wrong man?
What the actual fuck?
And why is this guy referring to my mom as his flower?
And where the fuck is Vic?
“We truly apologize for the inconvenience.”
Ah, well. Speak of the righteous…and the righteous shall speak.
In repentance of course.
“Inconvenience?” The man laughs a cold, hard laugh. “Tell me, Mr. Lavell. Would your bible call a holy war an inconvenience?”
Holy war, holy shit.
Holy fucking hostility thickening by the second.
I look up at my buddy Joseph, happiest now more than ever knowing he’s the guy in charge of protecting.
“Should I go in there?” I mutter to the humongous piece of carved out stone. “Maybe try to de-escalate the situation?”
I swear he rolls his eyes a little.
“Poor choice of wording, I agree. But you, out of all people, should understand the importance of Hendrix maintaining mental and emotional stability.”
I don’t know why what Vic just said sends a shiver down my spine, but it does and I can’t shake it.
“This never would be an issue if I did what I should have done eighteen years ago. But no, I respect your wife’s wishes and keep- eh my distance.”
It’s like an invisible punch knocks the wind straight out of me, and I have to grip onto Joseph to stop from toppling over.
Eighteen years.
I mean…could just be a timely coincidence.
Right?
Oh, Joey, please let me be right.
Please don’t let this man be who I think he is.
“And I always appreciated it…” Mom clarifies. “But I still don’t want Hendrix to be a part of your family.”
Another punch, and this time, not even Joseph can stop me from hitting the floor.
No.
No.
No…
I crawl backwards as fast as I can into a dark corner, then, huddled in a ball I squeeze my eyes shut to will away my suspicions.
There’s no way. My mom wouldn’t do this to me.
She wouldn’t. Auntie wouldn’t. They love me too much.
I’m farther from the living room, but not far enough to avoid the horror of what the guy says next.
“And you think, what, fiore ? That you can hide, lie, change your daughter’s name…and it will somehow drain my blood from her veins?”
The name part hurts, but it’s the blood part that has my heart shattering into eighteen pieces.
One for every year I just found out my mom’s been lying to me.
Somehow through the internal and external chaos, I manage to climb to my feet and stumble like a drunk on my way to the living room.
“I warned you about that money,” the man says harshly when Mom starts to cry. “How winning it would draw too much of their attention. Yet still, you didn’t listen.”
“I just wanted to give Hendrix the life she deserves!”
“Caterina!” he shouts. “Caterina Salvini! And I could’ve provided the entire fucking world to her on a platter from the beginning. Including my protection.”
Boom goes the dynamite.
I don’t realize I’m crying, or standing in the threshold of the living room, until Darla gasps.
“Mom? What’s going on?”
Mom and Vic whip around, matching horrified stares.
The man, though, moves gradually, as if he’s been expecting this moment, and when I finally catch sight of his face my blood runs cold.
Not from the threatening size of him.
Or how his presence dominates the room.
It’s his eyes, although exuding danger, they’re green like mine.
“Mom?” I call out to her again, voice trembling as he watches me.
I get nothing in response.
And when the man speaks for her, it’s in Italian.
Something along the lines of “Don’t you feel my blood in your veins?”
The question is not a question, more like a haunted manifestation. Because immediately after the man asks, I see more of his similar features.
Dark hair, skin tone, even our lips.
It’s unbelievable, yet undeniable at the same time.
I have no doubt he knows I see it too, but I shake my head regardless.
The man chuckles, then smiles in a way that shows neither come naturally to him, but he’s trying for my sake to appear friendly.
Loving, even.
It’s uncomfortable, so much, I have to look away.
When I do I find Mom, eyes on me and drenched with tears, as if knowing, but unable to stop what’s about to happen.
She uses silent words to plead for my forgiveness—but by the time my attention is back on the man, I already know I won’t forgive her.
“Who are you?” I ask, like the true masochist I am…because I’m pretty sure I know the answer, and pretty sure it’s already killing me.
“My name is Dante Salvini.”
A second explosion erupts in my head, louder than the first, and it throws off my equilibrium.
Dante Salvini, the notorious gangster I couldn’t find out anything about for months, is standing in the middle of Vic’s living room, talking to me like I’m some vital extension of him.
My instincts are talking too, and I don’t want to believe what they have to say. But it’s hard to deny the truth when it’s staring at you through the same fucking eyes.
“Are you my…” The last word dies in my throat.
“No,” he says firmly. “I am not- eh your father.”
Hearing those words is like coming up for air after nearly drowning. That is, until Dante adds, “My brother was.”