Page 1 of Brutal Crown

1

LIA

The cruelest truths are the ones you realize too late.

There’s nothing more humbling, nothing more tragic, than finally understanding you’re completely alone in this world.

I’m stupid for not seeing it sooner. I should have accepted it long before today. That way, the heartbreak of having no one show up at my graduation would be less visceral than what I feel right now.

I slip my hands into my jacket pockets as a chill racks through my body. A scratchy diploma is rolled under my arm, and a sick twist forms in my stomach.

The weather is slightly humid, not cold. I’m only wearing a jacket to cover what can be covered of my graduation dress. Having no one come to my graduation is embarrassing enough. Being seen walking home alone after is worse.

A loud screech of tires suddenly pierces the air near me, jolting me out of my daze. That’s when I realize I’m walking a little too close to the middle of the road.

“Watch where you’re walking, bitch,” the angry driver spits out of the window as he swerves to avoid me.

On a normal day, I would swear at him for calling me a bitch. I know I’m at fault, but all that flew out the window the moment he spat and cursed at me.

But today is no normal day.

The knockoff Jimmy Choo pumps I bought for today scrape against the cracked sidewalk. I pass a group of classmates clustered outside a restaurant, their arms full of flowers and balloons as they laugh and take pictures with friends and family.

I tug my jacket tighter around me and walk faster.

By the time I reach our apartment building, a crumbling brick box with peeling paint and a rusted buzzer that barely works, I’m on the verge of tears. I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood. I refuse to let the tears fall.

The door creaks loudly as I let myself in. Our place smells like damp carpet and old coffee, and when I turn on the overhead light, it flickers for a few seconds before settling into a weak, yellow hum.

I shrug off my jacket and toss the diploma on the kitchen counter. It slides and almost falls to the floor. The twenty-dollar cake I bought myself from the corner store sits in the middle of the counter, staring at me.

I find a match in one of the drawers before moving to peel back the plastic cover from the cake. I stare at the tiny, lopsided thing, unsure of what to say or do.

After a few beats of silence, I mutter, “Happy graduation, Lia.”

I light the single candle in the center of the cake.

“Happy graduation, Lia,” I say again, my voice dropping into a deeper, terrible impression of my father’s voice. “Couldn’t be prouder, kid.”

I close my eyes and blow the candle out without making a wish.

A hollow laugh bubbles up my throat as I scrape a finger through the frosting. I lick it off, focusing on the sugar clinging to the roof of my mouth and trying to ignore the pain splitting up my chest.

I can’t ignore the pain.

It’s been one whole year. One freaking year of my father being away on “business” with the Romanos. He’s always doing one business or another for them, but he’s never been gone this long.

He said he had to travel this time around. When I asked where he was going and why an accountant—because he tells me he’s an accountant—would need to travel for work when the people he accounts for are in the city, he never gave me an answer. Neglecting me is normal for him. It’s why this job of his always comes first before me. Heck, even before himself.

They always come first. The Romanos.

Even whispering their name in my head feels dangerous. Their name carries so much weight in Boston. Everyone knows their massive estate in Chestnut Hill. I see the estate sometimes when I take the long bus route home. The large iron gates, the sprawling grounds, and the massive ivy-covered mansion look like something ripped straight out of a gothic novel. It sits perched on a hill like it’s watching the whole damn city.

Everyone whispers about their wealth, power, and the things that happen behind those iron gates. They never let anyone in, and the cars that come out are always luxurious, sleek, and tinted. They hardly ever host parties like other wealthy families in the city. But when they do, I only hear whispers and snippets of the events because they never invite people like me.

Dante Romano, the patriarch of the family, is powerful and quite scary. I’ve seen his face many times on TV and in newspapers. Besides Marco, his second son, who is always in the media for his buzz-worthy relationships with various celebritiesand socialites, I’ve only seen a few pictures of two others, and none of the youngest son, who I heard has been missing for five years.

A hard knock jolts me from my thoughts.