Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 77233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“You might be willing to bend over for the enemy, Emilia, but I won’t. Tell him to come down here and kill me. Get it over with.”
I shoved to my feet. “Luca, no—”
“He killed our father!” he roared, the walls practically vibrating with rage. “I will never forgive them for it. I’d rather die in this damn cell—”
“It was me!” I backed away from him a few paces as tense silence descended over the small room.
My brother’s brows pulled together, his anger replaced by confusion. “What?”
“I killed Dad.” I choked on a sob. “It was supposed to be Sergio, and he just… He thought I’d run from Gio, and he wouldn’t help me. And he didn’t help Chiara… I killed him.”
His confusion slowly ebbed away until it morphed into an unreadable mask. “Get out,” he said quietly.
Tears streaked down my face. “Luca, please—”
“You better hope Guerra kills me, little sister, because if he doesn’t, the next time I see you, I’ll make him a widower.” The venom in his voice cut me to the core, and I stumbled back. “Get the fuck out.”
Tears clogged my throat as I turned to leave, the pain in my chest unbearable. It was the same rejection I’d experienced my entire life. That feeling of not being good enough to love. Not being good enough for his loyalty.
I opened the door and paused. “What did Dad ever do to make you care about him more than Chiara and me?” I choked out but left without waiting for an answer. I didn’t want to lose Luca, but I already had.
By the time I reached the top of the stairs, tears were blurring my vision and I could barely breathe. It hurt so fucking much. All I could think about was the look on his face, the hatred and disgust, a direct reflection of what I already felt about myself since killing my father.
Nero would kill Luca, and I couldn’t save anyone. Not even myself.
I spiraled into an abyss until it felt like everything was screaming inside my head, and I just wanted it to stop. I wanted to escape this never-ending cloud of grief and despair that felt as though it had blanketed my life for years. And it just got darker and darker, the weight heavier and more crushing.
I stumbled through the house and up the stairs on autopilot. I heard someone call my name, but I just moved faster, needing to escape.
I didn’t go to mine and Gio’s room, instead ducking into Renzo’s and slamming the door.
Ugly sobs tore past my lips as I rushed to the nightstand. Seeking, needing to cut this feeling out of me. Subconsciously, I knew what I was looking for, why I’d come to his room. But it wasn’t until I was sitting on the edge of the mattress, tears blurring the image of my brother’s switchblade in my hand, that my mind caught up.
I pressed the tip of the blade into the fleshy part of my forearm, just below the crease of my elbow. A single sharp prick of pain that was so clarifying, as though every messy emotion in me centered on that one point. Dangerous. This was so dangerous. I snatched the knife away from my skin, staring at the drop of blood that welled and trickled down my wrist.
The bedroom door clicked open, and I fumbled, dropping the knife.
Shame washed over me at the prospect of Renzo finding me like this, seeing what I’d become. But when I looked up, it wasn’t Renzo standing in the doorway; it was Gio.
His brows pulled together as he took in my face, the blood, the sobs that would not stop wracking my body. I wondered if he was disgusted by my weakness, but as his gaze shifted to the tiny puncture wound on my arm, then the knife at my feet, I didn’t feel ashamed. Not like I would with my brother.
Gio saw me, knew all the ugly, jaded parts of me. My love for Renzo kept me from showing this to him, but Gio… he’d seen me at my worst and loved me regardless.
He approached, picking up the knife and pocketing it before standing in front of me. His fingers swept over my cheek, and I closed my eyes, more tears breaking free as I did.
“Tell me what you need, piccola.”
“I don’t know.”
His other hand dropped to my wrist, calloused fingers following the thin trail of blood up to the crease of my elbow. “You do.”
Opening my eyes, I looked up and met his gaze, like the deepest, darkest parts of the bluest ocean, cold and bottomless. I wanted him to drown me, to fill my lungs and chill me to the bone until I felt absolutely nothing but him.
“Hurt me,” I whispered a sordid, desperate plea. A weakness I offered him in return for salvation from my sins.