Page 3 of Bitter Prince

She whimpered, and that was what finally shook me from my stupor. Rage shot through me, angry and red, and I bolted through the room and tackled my father. He tumbled off the bed with a loud thud and I fell right behind him. For a cruel old bastard, he moved with surprising agility. He got his bearings and backhanded me. I should have felt it, but I didn’t. All I could feel was adrenaline and rage rushing through my veins.

I kept punching, hitting, and biting. Anything to match the pain he bestowed on us all.

He rolled me onto my back, my skull hitting the cold hardwood. Stars danced in my vision but I shook my head.

“Cesar, get your fucking ass over here,” he shouted.

“No,” I hissed, jerking against him. I swung forward and headbutted him, his nose spurting blood instantly. “Cover my mother first.”

I hated that I was smaller than him, and I made a promise that one day I’d be stronger. Strong enough to overpower him. Strong enough toendhim.

Somehow Mamma had gotten herself free and jumped on his back. “Let him go, Angelo. Or I swear to God, I’ll leave. I’ll take Amon and go back home, consequences be damned.”

Father stilled and pushed her off. “You’re lucky I need her connections,” he spat in disgust before yanking me to my feet.

My vision tunneled as I jerked his hand away. He just shook his head, muttering under his breath. Father hated feeling powerless. I didn’t understand what he needed from her, but it had to be important.

A knock sounded on the door and I bent down to reach for a discarded robe, wrapping it around my mamma’s small frame.

“Get lost, Cesar,” Father barked. “You’re late, as always.” Then he moved out of the room, leaving me alone with my mother. Silence filled the space, ominous and heavy.

“You shouldn’t anger him, Amon,” she scolded me softly. “You’re important. I’m not.”

I shook my head. “You’re important. To Dante and me.”

She touched my cheek. “But I’m your mother, not Dante’s.” Her voice grew raspy and her hand on my cheek trembled. “I love you both, but you’re my little prince and you are owed a crown.”

My eyes widened. “I am?” I whispered.

The sorrow in her gaze gutted me. “You are older than both your brother and your cousin. Yet they will take what should be yours. What’s rightfully yours and what you deserve.”

She fell to the floor while I clung to her hand, pressing it against my cheek. “Mamma?”

“I’m fine. Just tired,” she mumbled, her eyes fluttering shut. Using all my strength, I tried to lift her. When I couldn’t, I reached for the pillows and fluffy blankets, pulling them off the bed, covering her small body. “My little prince,” she murmured. “He stole from you.”

I didn’t understand the feelings that slithered through my veins at her words. It would take me years to finally realize it was bitterness.

2

REINA, 6 YEARS OLD

Dust to dust.

Ashes to ashes.

Those were the only words the priest said in English. The rest of the service was in Italian, meaning most of the visitors visiting from the States couldn’t understand.

Including me.

All I felt was tightness in my chest. My heavy breathing. Burning in my eyes.

It was an unfamiliar feeling. It was suffocating. I rubbed my chest to ease the ache. To get more oxygen into my lungs. My vision blurred—tears or panic, I didn’t know—but then Phoenix squeezed my hand, bringing my attention to the surroundings.

Air seeped into my lungs. My vision slowly cleared, and the first thing that came into focus was our papà.

He stood shattered, watching the casket lower into the family gravesite. Grandma cried, her soft sobs filling the air while my sister and I stood, eyes wide, clutching each other’s hands. My chest hurt, but I thought that was normal because Phoenix said her chest was aching too.

We stayed back as people said their condolences and left. They would go back to their lives while ours would change forever. Grandma’s husband would soon be her ex-husband, so it was just the four of us left.