Page 18 of Vicious Behaviors (The Next Vicious Generation #3)

Marcello

I try not to squirm in place when my father lifts my chin to inspect the new cuts and bruises on my face.

“What were you thinking, Marcello?” my mother asks, her voice tight with worry as she takes in the dark contusions blooming across my cheek and jaw.

I don’t say anything. I just stare into my father’s cold hazel eyes.

“Boys fight, Tesoro. That’s what they do,” he says, but there’s a quiet tension in his tone, as if he’s saying it for her sake, not because he believes the lazy excuse.

“I know boys fight,” my mother replies, her voice starting to rise, “but I’d expect this kind of behavior from the twins. Even Stella. But not you, Marcello.” Her voice cracks in the end. “You’ve never gotten into fights before.”

“That was before,” my father says quietly.

His eyes bore into mine so intensely that I have to look away. He releases my chin and takes a step back, while my mother uses this opportunity to wrap me tightly in her arms.

“What’s wrong, Marcello? Tell me. Did those boys say something that hurt you? Were they bullying you?” she asks, brushing my hair back to get a better look at my face.

There’s fear in her voice. The kind only a mother can feel—deep, unwavering, protective. But I can’t give her an answer. I can’t ease the panic that’s tightening her arms around me.

She won’t understand. She can’t understand.

“Marcello, please talk to me,” she begs, her voice trembling.

I can’t give her what she wants. I can’t give her an explanation, because I don’t fully understand it either. One second, I was sitting by the fountain at Sacred Heart, and the next, I was on top of those three kids, fists flying like I wanted to kill them.

However, it wasn’t me who wanted to hurt them. It was the voice. The one that comes out and talks to me sometimes. The one that whispers that I must stop evil before evil stops me.

“They were… “I start, then hesitate. “They were picking on a kid in my class,” I lie.

There was no kid. It was just me. Me and them.

Freak. Weirdo. Loser. All the names they called me, one worse than the other… it was too much. I tried not to let them get to me. I really tried. Then one of them threw a rock at my face. And when I felt the blood pour down from my split brow… something snapped.

It wasn’t me anymore. It was the voice. I disappeared, and the voice took over. It wrapped itself around my rage, guided my fists, made them do what it wanted. And I let it. Just like I let it kill …

No. I can’t go there. If I go there now, Mom will see the truth behind my eyes. She’ll see that something is wrong with me. And I can’t let her. Not her. Not Mom.

‘Nothing is wrong with us,’ the voice says quietly, trying to soothe my sudden panic.

But it’s wrong. I know I’m damaged goods. Ever since it came into my life, I haven’t been the same.

I wish Jude were here. I could talk to Jude. He’d know what to do. He always knows what to do.

But to show my mother that a monster has taken hold of me… that, I can’t do.

“So you were defending someone?” she asks, latching onto the lie.

“Is that what happened?” To my shame, I nod.

“In that case, we can talk to Sister Margaretta, let her know those boys picked the fight. If we explain what happened, maybe she will reconsider your suspension. Just tell me who you were protecting so he can back up your side of the story.”

I keep my eyes down, staring at the rug in my father’s office, unable to utter a word.

There is no boy. Just me. Just it.

“Marcello,” she presses, “you have to tell me who you were protecting. Sister Margaretta needs to know the truth. It isn’t fair that you’re the only one who got suspended and not the boys who were antagonizing your classmate.”

Considering I wasn’t protecting anyone but myself, there’s no name for me to give her. So I stay quiet. I keep my mouth shut and stare at the floor, wishing it would just crack open and drag me under.

“Selene,” my father says calmly. “Give me a few minutes with our son.”

My mother hesitates for a split moment, not wanting to leave without a name. She looks at him, then at me, crushed by the thought that I might open up to my father instead of her.

I tell my mother everything. Just not this. Never this. Because once I do, she’ll never look at me the same way again.

“Okay,” she finally relents, pressing a kiss on my temple.

I don’t lift my head to watch my mother leave the office, not even when the door shuts softly behind her.

Now it’s just my father and me. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stares at me while leaning against his desk, arms crossed.

I swallow hard, trying not to fidget under the weight of his gaze.

“Did it help?” he asks suddenly. My head jerks up, jaw slack. I blink at him. “Well? Did it?” my father asks again. “Beating up those three kids… did it help?”

My father is not the sarcastic type. That’s more of Giovanni’s territory. So when he asks the question, I know he means it and expects an honest response.

“A little,” I answer truthfully. “A lot, actually.”

A few minutes after I let the voice do what it wanted, everything went quiet again. I could hear my own voice. Think my own thoughts. No whispering, no pushing, no darkness clouding my mind.

Sure, it meant I had to deal with the consequences, like my suspension, but at least I could finally breathe. For a little while, the voice was gone. And I felt like me again. Like I used to be before it ever came into my life. Before that night happened.

My father watches me for a long moment, studying me. I’m unsure what he sees the next minute, but he gets up from the edge of his desk and hurries to the door.

“Grab your coat,” he orders.

I do as he asks, tugging on my winter coat and following him out the door.

My sister Stella is waiting just outside, clearly trying to eavesdrop on our private conversation. She does that a lot. Whenever something big is happening in our house, Stella is usually never far from the action, wanting to know every detail.

“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 an eleven-year-old like me, it’s a jungle of noise, movement, and demonstrations of power and strength.

My grandfather spots us from across the room, that signature DeLuca grin spreading across his weathered face.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in. Been a minute since either of you graced my gym,” he says, pulling me into a loving hug.

“This visit’s long overdue,” my father explains, though his eyes stay locked on me.