Page 36 of Vicious Behaviors

“Stella,” my father says, his tone low but pointed. “Shouldn’t you be upstairs doing your homework?”

“It’s all done, Papà,” she lies, throwing me a glance full of concern. “You okay, Mar?”

I nod.

I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay for a while now.

But like Mom, I don’t want to worry her.

She exhales, then gives me a small, crooked smile. “Good. I hated those three assholes anyway. Next time you want to beat up bullies, call me, will you?”

“Stella,” my father says again, this time the sound of her name coming out more like a command.

She knows better than to keep pushing her luck.

“I know, I know. Go to my room,” she grumbles, but before she bids our father’s wishes, she gives me a tight hug, as if she had never been prouder of me.

She only lets go when my father rests his hand on my shoulder and gently steers me down the hall. I glance behind me and find Stella still standing there, pride shining in her emerald-green eyes.

However, if she knew the truth—that it wasn’t me doing the fighting, that it was him—would she still be proud? Or would she be afraid?

“Come, Marcello,” my father says when I lag behind.

I quicken my steps and follow him out the door and into his car. We sit side by side in the backseat while his driver and personal bodyguard, Bruno, takes us into the city.

“Where are we going, Dad?”

“To a place that’ll feed the monster inside you,” he says cryptically.

I’m not shocked that he’s taking me somewhere—I’m shocked by the fact that he knows. He knows something’s wrong with me.

“How…?”

“How what, Marcello?”

“How…“I struggle to get the words out. “How…do you…“

“How do I know?” he finishes for me, his eyes still on the road ahead. “I know more than you think, son. I know that sometimes good men are forced to do bad things. And that they can’t always do them on their own. Not without a little encouragement. Even if that encouragement doesn’t always have their best interests at heart.”

I don’t really understand what he means. But I relax into the seat a little anyway, oddly comforted by the idea that someone,anyone, might understand.

‘He has no idea,’ the voice taunts in the back of my mind.

I swallow hard and look out the window, loathing that he comes to me whenever he pleases, without being invited. I have no control over the voice. And that makes me feel more powerless than I ever felt before.

I discreetly glance at my father, and find him still staring straight ahead, his spine rigid with quiet resolve.

‘I’m okay,’ I tell myself. ‘Dad will know what to do.’

Jude is a lot like our father in that way. They always know what to do. He’ll banish whatever this thing is out of me. He has to. And when he does, I’ll be free.

When we pull up in front of DeLuca’s Gym, my brow furrows in confusion. I was certain Dad was taking me to see a doctor. Maybe a therapist who specialized in…whatever this is. Part of me even wondered if he was dragging me to see Father McDonagh for an exorcism. So, the gym was the last place I expected him to bring me.

“Why are we at Nonno’s gym?”

“You’ll see. Come,” he replies, opening the car door to get out, leaving me no choice but to follow.

Inside, the gym is alive with movement and sound. It’s packed with people training, sweating, punching bags, lifting weights, and running drills. It smells like sweat and rubber mats, and the buzz of energy in the air is electric. To aneleven-year-old like me, it’s a jungle of noise, movement, and demonstrations of power and strength.