8. Olivia #2
The treehouse was a piece of all of us. An intricate part of our childhoods. It raised us better than the homes we came from. Provided shelter for us in the storms brewing behind its walls.
And somehow, as I’ve walked through the woods on muscle memory alone, I’m back under it, staring up at the well-preserved outline.
It hasn’t aged a day since I left five years ago.
Fresh brown paint lines the outside and the small porch, helping it to blend into its surroundings.
Someone has kept up with it, keeping it as it was before.
Our sanctuary.
Tears fall from my eyes as I run through the forest, trying to recount the path toward the only place I can imagine getting to. I look over my shoulder, convinced he’ll be right behind me, holding his belt in the air, ready to beat me into oblivion.
My breath pours from my mouth as I gasp for more oxygen to fuel me forward. But it does nothing. My vision blurs. My heart pounds wildly in my chest, aching to break through my ribs.
Freedom. It’s all I need right now. I need a hiding place. Somewhere to recover. Somewhere he won’t know about.
If I had one wish, I’d beg to leave that house and never come back. Sure, I’ve made new friends and get along with everyone in town. I’m the perfect example of a Mafia princess.
On the outside, anyway.
On the inside, I’m clawing for freedom. Eager to leave the nest and my father behind. My mother refuses to leave, stating she’d have nowhere to go. No one to help her. And she may be right, but what’s the point if she hasn’t even tried?
With trembling fingers, I climb the rope ladder, leading to the small hole on the porch of the treehouse.
I collapse right there, crying out when the welts on my back and ass sting from the pressure.
With tears streaming down my cheeks, I turn over and lie on my stomach.
My breaths come and go quickly as the pain sizzles across my flesh like he’s still behind me, drunkenly spouting about what I’ve done now, which is nothing.
I turn my head toward the small door, leading into the treehouse.
It has four walls like a small home for us to escape to.
I’ve only been here a few times with Hux, JJ, and Mack.
It’s become our spot to unwind after school.
Well, when they can get away from their foster father, that is.
And when I have the freedom to leave my bedroom.
Since we’ve come to Greenwood, I’ve been a prisoner stuck behind four empty walls with only a bed, a dresser, and a minuscule amount of clothes to keep me going. I’m fed. I have a roof over my head, but sometimes I wish I could convince my uncles to take me away from here. Away from him.
But Sophia.
She’s so little. She doesn’t deserve an ounce of what I get from my father. So, I take it all, sparing her the hurt.
And this is the cost.
Sophia stole a cookie after dinner, after being told no. She didn’t listen and took it when my dad’s back was turned.
I shakily breathe through my nose, trying to get through the pain sizzling away on my flesh.
Fuck.
But it’s okay. It was for Sophia.
“Trouble,” Huxley breathes, crawling toward me frantically. Worry twists his face as he stares down at me, hovering his hands above my back. “You’re bleeding.”
“Please don’t touch them,” I whisper. “I had to. I had to…” I trail off, sucking in several breaths. “I had to save my sister.”
Hux’s eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. His lips pop open and closed, but he nods like he understands. Maybe he does. Maybe Franco has taken a belt to him, or Mack or JJ, for their defiance.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, barely under his breath, looking me up and down. If it weren’t for the moon shining through the tops of the trees, I wouldn’t have been able to see the pity in his expression.
I don’t want his pity. Or anyone else’s.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I whisper pathetically.
How poetic, I’m concealing my father’s crimes for him. Like I do every time. Oh, that bruise? It’s nothing; I fell. Why can’t my mom come to parent-teacher conferences? Oh, she’s sick. And the list goes on. Why do we always cover for our abusers?
I squeeze my eyes shut, the shame slithering through me. That’s why. It’s the shame of it all. I took the punishment for my sister and now…now I’m reduced to bleeding and sobbing.
You’re not supposed to cry. You’re a fucking Viotto. Take this punishment like a fucking man. My father’s words bounce in my skull—a constant reminder of what my last name means. Or is supposed to mean.
But I don’t want this burden. Viotto? No, thanks. If being the heir of his fucked up empire includes this, I decline. I don’t want any of this on my shoulders. I want freedom. My own life. Making my own decisions. Not something my parents do for me. Not something anyone does for me.
I want to live my life. Go to college. Maybe I’ll become a teacher or a social worker so that I can help the kids in situations like mine. Situations where my father can’t keep his fucking fists to himself.
Huxley sniffles slightly, lying beside me on the narrow porch of the treehouse. His moss-green eyes stare into mine as we watch one another below the bright moonlight illuminating the sky.
He holds out his pinky finger for me. “I pinky promise,” he whispers, gently intertwining our pinkies so they form a cross. “This is our secret.”
I sniffle in response, lightly squeezing his pinky with mine. I’ve only known him and his brothers for a short time. So, I have to trust he’ll keep his mouth shut.
“How often?” Huxley whispers, running his fingers through my hair.
An intimate gesture I relish. The warmth of his fingers glides down my jawbone over and over again until goosebumps spread across my flesh.
A buzz begins underneath my skin. Like a spark of electricity humming through me every time he touches me.
I lick my lips. “Often enough,” I whisper as more tears descend my cheeks. “Since we’ve come here, it’s gotten worse. He drinks so much. And—” I shake my head.
There are certain things I don’t know about my father’s relationship with Franco. My uncles in the Viotto Crime Family sent us here. But what does my father do for him? He’s the leader of the Franco Syndicate—a gang attempting to expand here in Greenwood.
Huxley nods once, biting into his lip. “Can I help in any way?”
My heart nearly swoops, and butterflies collect in my stomach, fluttering their wings. The way his eyes gaze into mine, he’s captured me completely. Like a tether holding us face-to-face, nothing could tear us apart right now.
“This is enough.”
And it was. For that one night, Huxley and I lay under the stars, soaking in each other’s presence. It wasn’t the last time. No. There were many more instances of my father’s fists raining down on me and leaving marks until I pushed my way through a window and escaped his heavy hands.
I watched my father abuse us too many times to count.
But nothing ever changed. The more he drank.
The more he found violence. Then when I was a little older, he put bars on my windows, thinking it would keep me out of trouble and under his roof.
From then on, he rarely cared about us. He had other priorities to handle. Like the boy he chose over his family.
I’ll always be thankful for that kid, though.
He took the pressure off my mother, sister, and me.
He took my father’s attention away from his home and put it on…
Well, I’ve never known. At that time, he was sneaking away on business—I assumed for Franco—but now, I’m not so sure.
Considering we likely died for his crimes.
I sigh to myself, dragging my brain from the cogs of thoughts running through it.
Too many memories rest within the walls of this small treehouse that I’ve somehow managed to climb into.
It’s spacious, even for my adult body. But then again, it always fit the four of us perfectly, giving us room to spread out.
My back rests against the far wall with a small window to my right. I grin at the pink frilly fabric blowing in the wind.
“What the hell is that?” Mack asks, rearing back with his hand on his heart.
“It’s a curtain,” I grumble, spreading it out so the outside world is no longer visible.
“You’re girling up our treehouse!” Mack accuses, narrowing his eyes at me.
I peer over my shoulder, frowning when he sits opposite me. His gaze locks on the fabric like he’d love to set it on fire.
“Don’t even think about it,” I growl, plopping down and admiring my handiwork. “Pink suits this place; it livens it up. It’s too dull here. Not colorful enough.” Way too dull. All they do is fart, laugh, and stink up the place like smelly boys.
It needed a pop of color. Like the purple skirt I’m wearing. Color makes everything better. Brighter. Happier.
“Next, you’ll be requesting a white picket fence outside! This is our treehouse.” Mack makes a motion toward JJ and Huxley, who crawl through the door. “A manly space! Pink has no say here,” he huffs at me, crossing his arms.
“Pink hater,” I huff. “Boys wear pink.” I stick my tongue out at him.
He opens his mouth to retort.
“Yeah, ours,” Huxley says, giving him a pointed stare and interrupting him. “It’s hers, too.”
“Don’t be a jerk,” JJ whispers, sitting beside him. He scratches his ear, nearly recoiling when static fills his new hearing aids.
Tears stream down my cheeks again. All the memories.
All the times we had together mix inside my brain, torturing me again.
Why? Why did it have to happen like this?
Why did I have to die and then come back as someone else?
I could have stayed far, far away. Jonathan already knows that Franco is a bad guy. Arrest him already and let me go.
“I never wanted to be here again,” I whisper to the walls, now empty and void of the love we once shared here. If they could talk, they’d project a rich history between four people who loved each other.