Chapter Seven
Elio
I found out my father was having an affair when I was eight.
And when I was nine, I saw my half-brother for the first time.
Father had named him Elia; he was so tiny, fragile, and innocent.
I used to be angry that my father had forgotten his vow to my mother.
I knew he lacked common morals, but I’d always respected that even though he didn’t show it, he loved my mother—well, until the day I saw him kissing a dark-haired woman in his car.
My father told me that no matter what I did, I couldn’t tell my mother, my sister, or my brother that we had another blood relative.
I felt guilty whenever my father would take me to see Elia, guilty that my family didn’t get to meet him, to see how precious he was, and guilty for denying Elia the opportunity to meet them.
I vowed that one day I would get my father out of my head, and I would make sure everyone knew about Elia.
I swore that I’d give Elia a chance to know my family; but that was until my father decided he didn’t want anything to do with Elia nor his mother after he found out Elia’s mother had seen something she shouldn’t have, and the next solution he could come up with was to get rid of them.
I was fifteen, and Elia was just six when we watched my father and his mother lash each other with words, a scenario that led to a bullet right between her eyes.
It took me a good two minutes to remember Elia wasn’t supposed to see that, but before I could shield his eyes from his mother’s lifeless body, he’d seen it all.
But I still held him, and my grip tightened when my father turned his furious and sick gaze to us, pointing the gun in Elia’s direction.
“Step away, Elio,” my father had said, his voice molded with hatred and determination. “I don’t want you stained with the sinner’s blood.”
I remember how the gun resting at the back of my pants burned at my skin. I wanted to shoot him—to kill my father. The urge was strong, but I knew I couldn’t do it. I’d never killed anyone; I didn’t have the guts to do it.
“Move, Elio,” he said with an impatience that had me blurting out the first words I could think of.
“I’ll do it.”
My father raised his brow in confusion and question. “Repeat that.”
I gulped, my form rigid with panic and decision. “I will kill him myself.” I lifted my chin and hardened my gaze. “No one betrays Marino and lives. The sinner doesn’t exist if your bullet ends up in them.”
My father studied me for eight damning seconds before lowering his gun and slowly walking over to me. He placed his hand on my shoulder, and I was baffled at how I didn’t jump out of my skin.
He looked me in the eye as he said, “I renounce Elia as my flesh and blood. When you kill him, you kill the last of his bloodline.”
I gave a single firm nod.
“I am proud of you, Elio. Make sure I see proof.”
“I will, sir.”
He nodded and looked at Elia in disgust. His gaze was hard enough that I visibly flinched, and then he was gone.
I released a breath, my ears ringing in alarm because I knew I wouldn’t do it—but I knew coming to a decision about Elia was inevitable.
I knew I had to provide proof. I knew I needed a bucket full of luck if I wanted to save Elia’s life—and I did save him, but it came at a cost I knew I would never be able to pay, and a part of me I knew I would never be able to get back.
I learned three things that day. My father was a sinner, and like the many he killed, he also didn’t deserve to live, but unfortunately, the same now applied to me.
“Good to see you too, Elio,” Elia said.
I studied him. I’d kept tabs on him—discreetly—over the years. And I’d refrained from reaching out and compromising in my goals. Still, I felt a hollow, sinking feeling in my chest sitting across from him now.
I shot to my feet, stepping away from the table and turned my back to him. A tense silence lingered as I massaged the side of my head. “How long have you been in Italy?” I finally asked him.
“Does it matter? I’m here now.” His voice was unconcerned. I heard his chair shift.
I turned to find him standing there, no expression on his face and both hands shoved into his pockets.
“Answer the question, Elia.”
“I go by Devil now,” he snapped, and I felt that coil in my stomach again.
“How long have you been in Italy?”
He squared his jaw. “Twelve years.”
“Twelve—” I deflated, looking at him with disbelief. “Twelve years, Elia? How do I not know this?”
He shrugged. “According to your intel, I’m probably on my way home from work in Los Angeles. You’re not the only smart person in the room, Elio.”
“You think this is smart?”
He gave another nonchalant shrug; anger blinded me, and I was walking towards him. He stood taller, fear in his eyes as he inched backward. It was a small flinch, but I felt the effect of it roll down my chest. “You think I will hurt you?”
“I don’t know what to think. I don’t know you.”
“Elia—”
“It’s Devil,” he gritted.
“You are not supposed to be here. Los Angeles was perfect for you. You could have it all, a normal life, a clean record—”
“I don’t have any records; I’m practically a nobody. You made sure of that.”
“To protect you, Elia. I did it all to protect you from this. And you—a common thief? Stealing from me? I would give you whatever it was in a heartbeat. Why did you have to pull up with this so-called gang? To rob me, your family?”
“You are not my family. As far as I’m concerned, that so-called gang is my family. They would never abandon or erase me to make things more convenient for them.”
“I never abandoned you. I protected you from me, from this, from my father. You’re my only living flesh and blood; I don’t want you to walk the path I have walked, Elia. You deserve all that is good. A clean life. Not this.” I shook my head in indignation. “I never wanted this for you.”
“You don’t get to want things for me, Elio.
I’m not some dumb kid anymore. The last time I saw you physically, I was ten fucking years old.
You were my brother, the only person I knew, the only person I loved, my only family, and all I asked—all I asked was for you not to let me go, and you fucking promised me you wouldn’t send me away.
You gave me your word. And then I woke up in Los Angeles—”
“Elia—”
“You don’t get to fucking talk about family when you won’t even tell anyone that I am your blood.
When you’re ashamed of me.” He laughed humorlessly.
“I used to make excuses for you, you know? I used to think, maybe he did it because he was scared of his father; maybe he did it because my life would have been in danger. But then I heard the news—about the fire. Lorenzo and Mariana.”
Pain held and squeezed at my heart, and I waited for what came next.
“How you fucking burned them alive … and stabbed the mother you claimed to love. Then I realized maybe you are just like him—worse than him—and then I beat myself up every day for believing what could have been lies because the person I knew would never do anything like that. But then again, he would also never break his promise to me, but he did.”
The silence that stretched between us after he said that was a long, tension-filled one, but after a while, I nodded, forcing on a look of indifference while taking steps away from him to the minibar on the side.
When I turned, I stretched my neck muscles from left to right, proceeding to pour myself a drink, and then leaned an elbow on the counter, drink in hand, as I watched him.
“You’re angry.”
“No shit, fucking Sherlock.”
I nodded. “What do you want me to do about it?”
He frowned. “What?”
“You want me to apologize for abandoning you, hm? You want me to hug you and tell you how much you mean to me? To beg you to go back to Los Angeles, live your best life, and stay away from crime?”
He didn’t respond, but his eyes flared.
“By all means, Devil. Carry on with your thieving addiction and the little minions you consider family. But remember that I own you now—not as a brother, but as a man who stole from me. You want to separate yourself from me, tell me you don’t know me—fine, I have no problem with that because, honestly, it gives me one less thing to worry about. ”
“I’m good with that,” he bit out.
Taking a sip from my glass, I began walking toward him again, this time getting in his face. He didn’t flinch.
“I am glad you are good with it. Do you know why?”
His nose flared.
“Because I won’t have to think of you when I put a bullet in the head of one of your family—when I kill them right in front of your eyes, slowly—very slowly because I would desire for you to hear them scream while their lives slip away from their eyes, and then after I’ve done that”—I inched closer to him, directing my mouth to his ear—“I’ll point a gun to your fucking head and do what I should have done years ago.
I’m sure your cunt of a mother would appreciate it. ”
He shoved me so hard that the glass fell from my hand, shattering on the ground. The shout of anger from Elia was the only warning I got before he pounced on me, and we both fell to the ground.
When his fist connected with my face, I let it happen. I let him hit me repeatedly, and when he yelled, “Fight back!” I didn’t protect myself from him; I allowed him to inflict what little damage he could. I let him pour out his anger.
I let him take what he wanted from me.
Only a few seconds later did the sound of the door busting open reach my ears, and then Elia was being hurled away from me.
About a dozen men were in the room; Casmiro pointed his gun at Elia’s head.
“Don’t you dare!” My voice boomed through the space. Everyone except Elia looked confused.
I jumped to my feet like a madman; my heart was racing, my whole body vibrating with anger and—and fear. Suddenly I was fifteen years old again, and there was a gun pointed at my brother.
Quickly, I pulled him behind me, putting myself between him and Casmiro’s gun.
Immediately, Casmiro lowered his gun, and so did the other men around him.
“Anyone who touches a hair on his head will not live to see the second after. That’s a fucking promise.”
My breathing was harsh, the panic inside me uncurling. Fifteen-year-old Elio was back in my body, and the image of my father was as clear as day in my head: his gun—Elia’s small frame—the tangy smell of blood coming from his dead mother.
Elia yanked his hand away from my hold and bolted from the office without a second glance our way.
I tried to calm my breathing—I tried to count in my head like I used to do all those years ago—but I suddenly forgot how to count, I forgot numbers—I forgot everything. My name, where I was, who I was—everything. My brain was completely empty.
“E, what the fuck just happened? How—”
“Out.” My voice was clipped, short, and unfamiliar.
“What—”
“Out—everyone, get the hell out. Now.”
I heard footsteps retreating, followed by the sound of the door closing and then … silence.
I sank to my knees, unable to stand any longer. My hands shook and my breathing was short.
I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself to remember how to count again—but I couldn’t. I felt like a stranger in my own body, and I craved a sense of familiarity more than I craved air at this moment.
When I opened my eyes, my gaze came in contact with the first comfortable thing my brain could register.
I sighed in relief as I dragged myself forward and picked up a triangle-shaped shard of glass.