Venom Sweeter than Honey (Fated to the Cowboy #2)

1. Salvatore Enzo Levi Amato

SALVATORE ENZO LEVI AMATO

“Ifuckin’ love you, luce mia.” My light.

The warm, crackling whisper of fire is layered beneath the record player singing The Inkspots, ‘I Don’t Want To Set The World On Fire.

’ The soundtrack to my parents’ romance.

My mother’s hips sway like a silk-robed pendulum as my father dances her across our living room.

Hair in curlers, no make-up, barefoot, and grinning up at my father like he’s the sun, as he stares down at her like she’s his sunflower.

I avert my eyes as my father leans in and my mother murmurs, “I love you more, Francis Amato the Third.”

My focus returns to the riddle I’ve written in the corner of my notebook.

What gives birth only to kill its young?

I grin to myself, knowing my parents will never guess the answer.

Most of my friends would be uncomfortable watching their parents so openly express affection, but it’s all I’ve ever known. Instead, what makes me uncomfortable is watching how everyone else’s parents act around each other. Cold, distant, resentful. It makes me shudder.

I want what my parents have or nothing at all.

Thanks to them, I know what a healthy relationship looks like. They aren’t perfect by any means... Shit, I can’t say for certain they’re even good people, but they’ve been good to me—and they’re better parents than anyone else I know.

Being in high school, I see how all the guys in my class treat girls. How they think it’s cool to be callous towards them. Rough with them. Disrespectful. It’s put an even bigger rift between us, and instead of going out partying, I choose to stay home.

Not that I’m actually ever invited to those parties.

It gives me the opportunity to study more. My dream is to study the stars, the cosmos, time and space—maybe astrophysics or quantum physics. I’m not entirely sure just yet. Whatever best allows me to uncover the secrets of the universe, and most importantly, life after death.

Apparently, I have what my teachers consider to be a macabre obsession.

I vehemently disagree.

I’m not obsessed with death.

I’m obsessed with what lies beyond our exceedingly limited five physical senses.

I’m obsessed with the first law of thermodynamics: energy cannot be created nor destroyed.

I’m obsessed with matter/anti-matter annihilation—that for every particle of matter there exists an antimatter twin—they are identical in every way, except their electrical charges are the precise opposite, and when they collide, pure light is formed, and their energy is released back into spacetime—the very fabric of our reality.

I’m obsessed with quantum entanglement—that two or more particles can become so deeply intertwined that no matter the distance between them, what happens to one will also affect the other.

I’ve never heard anything more romantic.

And being the romantic that I am, how could I not want to dedicate my life to studying these principles?

Thankfully, despite my father needing an heir to his business and legacy, he’s always encouraged me to pursue my dreams.

“You’re destined for so much more than this, Salvatore. Don’t follow in my footsteps because they’ll only lead you to an early grave.”

He wasn’t wrong.

At 16, I’m so desensitized to the sound of distant gunshots that it takes me a moment to realize the sound is far closer than it should be. That the dull, but still loud thump of a suppressor is the only reason my ears aren’t ringing right now.

My father barks orders at his men peppered throughout our house as I leap from the dining table chair, and my mother rushes towards me.

My father stalks behind her, his stern face set in a grim rage as he cocks the Beretta he pulls from his shoulder holster.

“I’ll meet you in the panic room in less than ten.” His dark eyes are bright as they briefly dance between my mother and me. “I love you.”

My mother’s expression is hard, her body rigid with self-restraint as she forces herself not to beg him to come with us. While this is the first time we’ve ever needed to use the panic room, my mother has tried to sway his decisions before, and knows it’s a waste of precious time and energy.

My father won’t be joining us in the panic room, not merely out of loyalty to his men, but because he doesn’t trust anyone to protect us with the same ferocity he will.

It’s also the reason he’s moments away from being kidnapped and tortured to death, and my mother and I aren’t.

What gives birth only to kill its young?

Time.