Page 7 of Corrupted By You

“Ew, Gomez and Morticia.” Éva heaved, her features twisting sourly. “Can you please wait after dinner to profess your undying love?”

They ignored us and kissed.

After their nauseating lip-lock, they grinned like two villains who’d set the world on fire and were now basking in the glory of it all.

We resumed our dinner with our usual trivial chat. Éva’s new high school, St. Victoria. Ben’s ever-expanding harem of supermodels. Céline’s new plans for a family trip to Bali.

The cake arrived shortly, a three-tier red velvet cake with thirty-four candles.

Didn’t matter how many birthdays you had. Having a room full of individuals sing to you would always be awkward, no matter how lovable the intention.

Yves De la Croix raised his glass and looked at me with pride gleaming in his gaze. “To my eldest son, whom I love very much. Happy birthday, Zeno.”

Warmth slithered through my spine and I raised my own glass, chin-tipping towards the man who, under every circumstance, had no reason to take me in.

Yet he did.

Proving to me that family was not defined by blood.

It was defined by the people who picked you up when you were down. Who nursed and supported you through thick and thin. Who acted like a beacon of light at the end of a long and dark tunnel.

Family was defined by the people who rescued you when you had your throat sliced open and were left to bleed out like a farm animal in a dirty Parisian alleyway.

I had my own penthouse in downtown Montardor, but the De la Croix estate— nestled in the city’s most prestigious corner—would always be home.

There was something poetic, almost melancholic, about the ivy-wrapped, three-story manoir with Victorian-era-inspired layout. Brown wood, ornate accents, hidden passages, and maze gardens for lovers’ quarrels. During fall, when the courtyard was lit with an innumerable number of lanterns and the night air swirled with the secrets of this imperfect family, the property was ranked with a bone-chilling mien.

My parents slept soundly upstairs while Ben and Éva were in the stables, checking out her new horse. I was in my old study, watching the flames crackle in the fireplace as I fixed another glass of wine.

Loneliness was a bit of an odd thing. You could be physically surrounded by a multitude of individuals and still find yourself alone mentally.

I spent time with my loved ones, but now I wanted to brood in silence because at the end of the day, there wasn’t anyone who really understood the truemeeven after thirty-four years.

Yves wanted me to get married and settle down. Céline wanted me to find love. My siblings just wanted me to be happy.

Nobody understood that love and matrimony weren’t in the cards for monsters, and inside of me prowled the kind of beast stemming from heinous fairy tales. My darkness and my tastes weren’t the kind that helped establish a strong foundation for marriage, let alone love.

I was called the punisher for a reason. My strong suits lay in my calculating abilities and all the creative ways I could skin a traitor in minutes. Patience and brutality were two skills I’d honed from a young age. They were a reminder that I wasn’t fit for the golden gate and two-point-five kids vision.

Men like me lived and died alone.

My train of thoughts was halted when my phone lit up with a familiarB.

Bazoli was an associate, a dirty cop at the MPD. He’d been on our payroll for many years and helped us cover our tracks and business dealings.

I picked up on the fourth ring, answering smoothly, “Baz.”

“Zed,” he replied with a huff. “How are you?”

I cut to the chase. “Should I be concerned?”

Ben’s words from dinner ricocheted in my mind until they cracked through a wall and bled a small fissure of doubt. I wanted to be certain that I was out of the woods, hence why I texted Bazoli earlier to know if there was another reason why cops were tracking us.

I wasn’t stupid enough to tell Bazoli about Armel.

“There’s a lot of unease after Armel Lancaster’s death. We’ve spoken to his family and tried to trace his steps to figure out how…” He let out a tired rush of breath. “Look, Armel Lancaster was Mayor Hill’s godson. His mother and Diane Hill were high school best friends. She’s taken a personal interest in this case and won’t rest until justice is served.”

“Interesting.” I sipped my wine, watching the flames in the fireplace soar high. “And how does this impact my family?”