Page 184

Aiden reached into his hood and pulled out a red nylon fabric. “Sorry, Lexie. You can’t stop me. I hope you forgive me.”
Then he turned on his heels and jumped off the cliff. My heart sank into my stomach, and I rushed forward even though I knew I couldn’t help him. The air surged back into my lungs as a blue and red parachute flew across the bay, lifting him into the air.
“Aiden,” I shouted. “Are you insane? You almost gave me a heart attack.”
But my moment of relief quickly turned into my worst nightmare. Aiden’s parachute snapped, and he flailed his arms, yelling my name. There was nothing I could do but watch my brother spiral out of the sky like a plane crashing into the beach.
And just like that, my world imploded.
I woke up with my heart racing and Marcello sleeping soundly beside me. I considered waking him for a moment, but he looked so peaceful. I poked his arm, and he snored softly.
With Marcello out cold, I slipped out of my bedroom and rushed downstairs. Whenever Marcello spent the night, which lately was every night, the guards kept their distance. Tonight, not even Dom waited in the hallway.
I snuck downstairs, drawn toward the back of the house where Aiden had fallen to his death. But if he were dead, someone would have found a body. The police would have pronounced him dead. None of this made any sense. Was that a dream or a flashback? Or was it a false memory I had implanted to forget the real one?
As I crept toward the back door, I heard the most gut-wrenching sound float down the corridor. A chill rolled down mybare arms. Phantom of the Opera-style piano music pulled my attention to the great hall. I inched toward the music, hoping this wasn’t another one of Luca’s games.
65
MARCELLO
As a child,I was like Alex—a free spirit without a care in the world. I wanted to be like my mother and spent most of my time painting and studying art in her studio. My mother lit up every room with her smile and made people feel something with her paintings. She was the only good thing I had in my life. Hell, she was the good in all of our lives.
My father was always cruel and cold, but he hardened with each passing year since her passing. Luca was like him in many ways and adapted easily to the changes in our house. I spent more time painting and sketching in my mother’s studio until my father was in a mood one day and ended my dreams of becoming an artist.
It was the fifth anniversary of my mother’s death, and my dad was a complete disaster. I was in her studio, kneeling before a canvas with a rigger brush cradled between my fingers. My father swayed into the room with a bottle of Macallan in his hand, muttering curses under his breath in Italian. His eyes traveled across the room, shifting between her paintings and me.
He clenched his jaw when he set his hardened gaze on me. I shivered from the intensity in his deep brown irises, hoping hewouldn’t start another fight. When I was younger, he saved his punishments for Luca, taking out his anger on him. Luca didn’t mind learning his lessons and took them in stride. But the hell with that shit. I wasn’t a psychopath like my brother. I wanted to get out of this house and as far away from the violence as possible.
But I never had a choice.
Dad stopped at my mother’s self-portrait and pressed his hand to the wall beside the framed oil painting as he sipped from the bottle. I could hear him speak to my mother in Italian, his words muffled. We all missed her, my father most of all. She was the glue that held our family together. Without her, each of us was falling apart in our own ways.
My father dived headfirst into work while Luca tried to learn the family business. A natural genius, my older brother spent most of his time with his nose in a book, devouring its contents. One day, Luca would take over for my father and run Salvatore Global. He was more suited for the role, and I was glad I didn’t have to take on the responsibility.
I preferred to be left alone.
After Dad finished staring at my mother’s portrait, he strolled across the room, downing the rest of the scotch. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. I wondered if it was from the alcohol or if he’d cried over my mother. Not once in my life had I witnessed him showing a single emotion. On the day Luca found my mother on the floor of her studio, with her head turned to the side, her lips as blue as the ocean, my father shed a tear—just one.
Dad glared at me, his mouth twisted into a scowl. “What do you think you’re doing, Marcello?”
Confused, I stared up at him. “I’m painting.”
He shook his head. “I told you not to come into this room.”
“Sorry, Dad. I just wanted to be closer to her.”
My hand trembled when he bent before me, and I dropped the paintbrush on the tarp.
“She’s dead! You hear me, Marcello, dead. Nothing can bring her back. So when I tell you to stop with this nonsense, I mean it. No more painting. It’s time for you to act like a man and learn the business.”
He swatted the paintbrush from my hand. Paint splattered on his black Brioni suit, my T-shirt, and the floor. His eyes glazed over as he took in the sight of the red acrylic paint. I was trying to recreate one of Mom’s paintings and failing miserably. My talent didn’t even compare to hers.
The empty bottle in his hand crashed on the floor, shattering into pieces. He reached down and gripped the collar of my shirt, choking me with the fabric as he pulled me up from the floor. I was a teenager, almost as tall as him, and gaining more muscle from playing football. Even at his age, the old man was still as strong as an ox.
He blew out a deep breath while I held mine, terrified of what he would do this time. His punishments were harsh and painful, reminders that would strengthen my brother and me.
“Look at what you did,” he shouted, his face inches from mine.