Page 9 of Vicious Behaviors (The Next Vicious Generation #3)

Marcello

Anna’s soft sobs pull me into the backyard, where she’s crouching on the grass and cradling something in her hands as tears stream silently down her chubby cheeks.

“Anna? What’s wrong?” I ask, concern swelling in my chest for my baby sister.

She lifts her head, her crystal blue eyes—so similar to mine—now red and swollen.

“He’s sick. He’s sick,” she stammers between sobs.

“Who’s sick, Anna?” I ask, stepping closer.

“Birdie,” she sobs.

And that’s when I see it—a small sparrow with one wing nearly torn clean from its frail little body. The injury is so severe that the bird doesn’t even try to move away from Annamaria’s gentle grasp. It just lies there. Shaking. In agony.

“Save him. Save him,” she pleads, holding the bird out to me with trembling hands.

“Anna… “I begin, but the words catch in my throat.

How do I tell my five-year-old baby sister that there’s no saving this bird?

“Please, Mar. Please,” she whispers, and the way her voice cracks saying my name nearly rips me in two. My chest aches seeing both gentle souls in such pain. So much so that it’s becoming harder and harder to breathe.

I force a soft smile and sit cross-legged beside her on the grass.

“Give him here,” I say gently.

“What are you going to do?” she asks, worry flickering in her eyes as she hesitates, suddenly shielding the bird away from me.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want… you to… save him,” she answers on a strangled sob. “Can you save him, Mar?”

“I can try.” I nod, wiping the tear-soaked strands of her light blonde hair away from her face.

Her tiny shoulders relax somewhat, as though that one gesture lifted the weight of the world off her shoulders. Then, ever so gently, she places the dying sparrow in my palms with heartbreaking tenderness.

“Thank you,” she breathes.

I smile again, though I feel my chest becoming tighter now.

“For this to work, I need a favor from you, too.”

“Anything,” she replies quickly.

“Good. I need you to run inside and grab some towels. Soak one in warm water. Just not too hot, okay? Go to the kitchen and ask Lourdes or Stella for help, then bring it to me so we can warm this little guy up.”

“Okay!” she beams, relief and gratitude brightening her face.

“Go on now. Hurry.”

She promptly jumps to her feet and races back into the house.

I watch her disappear, knowing I have only a couple of minutes to act before her return.

I glance down at the tiny, fragile bird, its chest heaving, while its life slowly slips away.

The bird quivers in my palms, barely hanging by a thread.

A torrent of guilt and sadness washes over me, battling with the grim necessity of my choice.

“I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry,” I whisper in pain, and swiftly snap its tiny neck. The crack is small, but final.

“Marcello!” My mother’s voice slices through the air, sharp with panic, revealing that she must have been watching me the whole time. Her shout brings my father rushing outside, and both of them stand frozen upon seeing the dead bird still lying in my hands, realizing what I’ve done.

My mother becomes pale, her eyes wide with a mix of horror and confusion, while my father remains silent, with a blank expression plastered on his face.

I open my mouth to explain, but am interrupted when Annamaria and Stella run into the backyard with a wet towel in hand.

Before they notice what I’ve done, I quickly stand up and turn my back to them, wrapping the sparrow in a handkerchief I’d stuffed in my pocket earlier.

Once I’ve hidden the broken body deep in my jeans pocket, I pick up a pebble from the ground and discreetly hurl it into the nearest tree, coaxing a flurry of sparrows to burst into the sky.

“Where’s Birdie?” Annamaria asks, confused when she doesn’t see her friend in my hands. “Is he okay?”

“He’s better than okay,” I say, pointing up. “He’s flying with his friends.”

Annamaria stares upward, her whole face lighting up, unable to differentiate the sparrow she begged me to save from the ones flying freely above. “Birdie!” she squeals with joy.

However, by the way Stella narrows her eyes at me, I can tell she isn’t fooled by the bird’s miraculous recovery.

But it’s not my sister’s suspicion that twists my insides. It’s the look on my parents’ faces.

My mother still isn’t sure what she just saw, or what to make of it.

And my father… he just stares, expressionless. Cold.

That’s what breaks me. That’s what triggers the voice to talk to me again.

‘See? They know now. They know what we are. But don’t worry. I’ll protect us. I’ll always protect us. From everyone.’

I wake up drenched in cold sweat with the memories of the past clawed at the edges of my mind, slipping into my dreams and stealing any chance of rest.

Still, it could’ve been worse. Out of all the things I remember from my youth, killing that sparrow to spare my sister and that bird pain is one of the least troubling. Which, unfortunately, says a lot.

A quick glance at the clock on my bedside table reveals that it’s a few minutes past four in the morning.

Meaning it’s too late to try falling back asleep and too early to start the day.

Still, I’ve never been the type to lounge around, least of all in sheets that are soaked through, an occurrence that happens more often than not.

As if on autopilot, I get out of bed, strip the sheets, and toss them straight into the wash.

Then I head for the shower, hoping the scalding water will rinse off whatever pieces of the nightmare still cling to me.

I scrub until my skin feels raw and new, intent on starting the day without dragging last night’s nightmare along with me.

Once back in the bedroom, I open the dresser and grab a pair of old workout sweats and a faded T-shirt, since it’s one of the few combos I haven’t already worn to the gym this week.

Most of my clothes are still at my parents’ place.

That’s where my real wardrobe lives, packed into drawers and closet space that don’t really feel mine anymore. And there’s a reason for that.

For the past five years, I’ve mostly been sleeping at Jude’s place in the city.

Which sometimes makes me feel like I’m the cliché fucked-in-the-head little brother, crashing rent-free at his emotionally untouchable, always-has-his-shit-together, older brother’s penthouse, while I try to figure my mess out.

Sundays are the only days I head back home to spend time with my family, do some laundry, raid the fridge, and pack enough clothes to last me a week.

All in all, living in Jude’s penthouse worked when I was a teenager, when I needed space and distance from my family.

When I feared the voice might take over at the most inconvenient times and scare them.

Scar them. I’m not entirely convinced that I have full control over the beast inside me.

Still, I have enough of it to be comfortable spending at least a few hours with the people I love and not worry that I’ll do something stupid—like hurt them.

Today, however, everything feels off. Heavy. Like I’m not quite ready to face anyone, not even Mom, with all her usual fussing over me.

Hmm. Maybe I should skip lunch. They already know I’m going to skip Sunday Mass. And honestly, that’s a new habit I plan on keeping for the foreseeable future. Or I could just bite the bullet, go home, and ask Mom if she’ll help me find a place of my own.

It’s time I moved out of Jude’s and bought myself a place to live, one that’s solely mine.

I’m not exactly a kid anymore.

Then again, I never really was.

Not after he came into my life.

‘Don’t be like that. I’m you, remember? Where in this together,’ I can almost hear him, his voice slick with mockery.

However, the devil isn’t awake yet. Not yet.

If it weren’t for the nightmares, mornings would be the only peace I have.

He doesn’t show up right away after I wake.

Not in those first few quiet hours, at least. It’s the rest of the day that is a concern.

It’s the rest of the day I have to survive.

But I’ve lived with him long enough to have learned a few things.

Staying busy and active usually keeps him settled down.

What’s that saying?

Idle hands are the devil’s playground?

Yeah, I couldn’t agree more, especially since this particular devil loves to torment me in the quiet moments. It’s in those lulls when my mind drifts off to places it shouldn’t. That, and when he smells blood in the water—the scent of copper in the air is his favorite cue to wreak havoc on my soul.

So I stay busy. As one of the Outfit’s enforcers, I work like a madman during the day, feeding his bloodlust. And at night, I hit the gym, pushing my body until it’s too exhausted to carry his weight inside me.

If I time it right, I can steal a few good hours just for myself, where I’m just me, not him. But today feels like it’s off to a bad start.

I glance at the clock again and verify it’s a quarter to five. It’s early. Too fucking early, which means I’ll have to fight him off sooner than I would have wanted. And with that thought taking root in my head, an all too familiar chill starts to roll through me.

He’s coming. I can feel it. The creeping awareness that soon he’ll wake. And when he does, my incessant torture begins.

My exhausted brain reaches for the only outlet that’s proven to help—my grandfather’s gym.

Maybe if I get there early, burn off the storm building in my chest, I can keep him at bay a little longer, and still make it to Sunday lunch.

Without a second to spare, I grab my gym bag off the floor and rush out the door.

Twenty minutes later, I pull up in front of my nonno’s gym only to see light streaming from the first floor.