21 years ago
The Romano Mansion; Chicago.

"Shh. He's asleep."

A quiet babble.

"What did I just say, Tommo?" Santo's bossy whisper floats to me from the distance. "Ugh, whatever. You can't even understand me. You're a baby. Useless."

Like bobbing to the surface of some thick, inky pool, I take my first breath of reality. My surroundings bleed into bleary focus, and with it the sight of my brothers' silhouettes at the entrance of my room. Santo hoists our baby brother determinedly on one hip. He's small enough himself that it's a challenge, but persists with a stubborn determination even as Tommaso slips haphazardly down his body every few seconds.

"Oh, you're awake. Good. Mamma and Papa are fighting. Can we come in here?"

I sit up, rubbing my eyes until it feels like my brain is mashed back into working order. Now a reflex to waking up, immediate anxiety flutters between my ribs. I don't know what time or day it is, how long I've been sleeping, or what's been happening since I've been out. It's been like this since I got back from Hope Valley.

Santo busies himself settling our baby brother on the floor and handing him a toy. In the month and some days I was gone, Tommaso has grown more than I thought a baby could. He's already starting to look like he belongs in this family with his shock of dark hair and matching eyes.

Sometimes, it seems like he's the one good thing in this house. His constant smiling and happy blabbering feel out of place, but it won't be long until that's gone. I can't remember the last time I saw Santo laugh but it must've been when he was a baby. 

With a mighty squeal, Tommaso rears back and slaps Santo in the face with his toy. 

Santo's eyes bulge and he turns to me, a question practically bursting from his face. I shake my head, and his jaw drops in indignation. "But Mo—"

"No. I said when he's older."

Santo's lip curls in disgust, and he shoots our baby brother a death glare. "Hear that? Just a few more years and I'm kicking your damn ass."

Carefully, I test out my legs. It normally takes me several minutes to be able to stand. Santo watches me and it makes me uncomfortable, but he doesn't look like he's scared of me. "It's been four days this time," he says. "You probably don't remember but you woke up a few times and I gave you some water. And some food."

Four days. Four days I was locked in my head. I wonder if I'll ever escape this oppressive shadow that follows me around. It's beginning to look and taste familiar. Like red roses and the smell of cigarettes. Like the feeling of her voice in the middle of all the pain. 

"It's okay, my little prince. It's all going to be okay."

Sometimes I think I hear her when I'm awake, too. 

"Mamma is mad that Papa sent you away," Santo continues. "I don't want him to be mean to her, Mo."

Weakness, exhaustion, and malnourishment almost capsize me when I stand. Now that I'm more awake, I can hear the noise from downstairs. The raised voice—his. The muffled crying—hers.

"We'll stay in here," Santo says dutifully as I slip out the door. He knows how this goes. 

When I get downstairs, they don't see me. I get a glass and fill it at the sink. Still, they don't see me. And I wonder if I'm a ghost, if I ever really came back from Hope Valley at all. Santo is the only person who makes me feel like I'm real these days—he sees me. He talks to me like he always has. And he doesn't stop even if I never respond.

"I can't handle this, Antonio. I can't handle another fucked up son," Mamma cries, sitting at the table with her head in her hands. "What did you do to him?"

"I didn't do anything," Papa snaps. His movements are jerky and erratic as he paces in front of her. "The place was shut down, Maria. Everything they were doing to those kids was exposed. Awful stuff. But some of them responded well to the treatment, you know. He may get better with time."

"He's not going to get better," Mamma sniffles, raking trembling hands down her face. "I know it. Those scars... the things they did to him..." she shivers, "how could you send him there? How could you? He's already so much like you, this will ruin him."

Papa stops, standing so still that he almost seems to be holding his breath. "Maria..."

"Antonio, you're getting worse again. You need to fix it. This needs to stop, please. You were doing so well before we sent him away. So well."

I'm convinced he's about to hit her, but Papa only collapses into the chair next to her. He knots his fingers into his hair, hunching over the table. "I know. I know. I can't—I can't control it. I can't do this again. I tried to help him, and I messed up. I messed up." His voice becomes strangled, low. "He's done after this. He's not getting better. He'd have been better off dying in that place."

Mamma gasps. "How could you say that?"

"Because now he's going to be me!" Papa roars. "I never had anyone to help me when I was his age. I tried to help. I really did." He deflates, and I've never seen my father look so small. "It's done. It failed."

"He's still your son," Mamma says. "You're the only one who can actually understand him. He needs you. You have to fix this."

Her fingers, too bony and thin, rest lightly on his shoulder. Her hair is greasy and her face drawn but she seems to be oddly peaceful today. Calm and eerily present. She and Papa take turns losing it, I think. When Mamma's crazy, Papa's mad. And when Papa's crazy, Mamma's affectionate—but she quickly spirals once he starts hurting her. 

Papa is shaking his head. "I can't fix it. I can't fix anything." He shoots to his feet, becoming erratic again. "All this, these stupid fucking ideas you have of Santo, and now another fucking child? It's too much. When Tommaso gets older, the fuck is it gonna be with him, huh? This isn't the family I was supposed to have. It's not good for the business. You made them this way. Whatever's fucked up in there," he waves a finger by his head, "you gave to them too."

Mamma starts shaking all over. "It's not my fault I had another baby. I told you I-I didn't want to, but you made m—"

Papa has her by the throat in a second and just like that, the pattern I've witnessed thousands of time is repeating itself yet again. "I did what. You can't blame this on me. I gave you all this." He gestures violently around them. "I put you on the map, Maria. I gave you money and power and everything you could possibly want. And in return, all I asked was that you give me children. Massimo may have my fucked up genes but you're his mother. You're supposed to nurture and comfort him, but all you do is fucking cry."

She sees me then, in that moment with his fist around her neck and those fat, familiar tears staining her skin. It's the only time she ever sees me. Her lips start forming words, hair stuck to damp, flushed cheeks. Help. Help me.

Because we both know what comes next. I've watched it, tried to stop it, have only been punished for interfering. There's nothing I can do. Tommaso is here because of it. I've had to shield Santo from it, stop him from rushing Papa and getting himself killed. Santo loses his mind when Papa does that to Mamma. He screams and cries and hits me trying to get to her.

Help me. Help me please.

As Papa rips her shirt down her chest, I turn and head up the stairs. Quietly, I slip back into my room. Santo is curled up in my bed with Tommaso.

He sees me instantly, eyes widening in relief. "Is she okay?"

I turn on the little radio I keep by my bed, filling the room with the bouncy chords of a random song. I go through the motions of protecting my brothers—locking the door, propping a chair in front of it, making sure they can't hear what's happening downstairs. It's a routine that slowly makes me feel like I'm coming back to myself.

It helps, being responsible for my brothers. Somehow that's the only thing that helps.

"Are you okay, Mo?" Santo murmurs sleepily. He keeps an arm tightly around our baby brother, who has finally settled down. For all his complaining, Santo is fiercely protective over him. He doesn't like feeling helpless and I think it makes him feel good to be responsible for someone the way I am for him. 

"I don't know," I tell Santo, speaking for the first time in what feels like forever. And the truth pushes out. "I don't know if I'll ever be okay again."

"Just stick with me then," he mumbles, eyes dropping shut. Sleep is beginning to settle peacefully over his features. "You, me, and Tommo. Let me help for once. You never let me do that."

It's always been us versus them. My parents versus me and my brothers. But now I need to protect them from myself too. Would it be better for them to be downstairs, witnessing that mess, than up here with me?

They're surrounded on all sides by demons and they'll never be safe.

I wait until he's asleep before I lock myself in the bathroom. Santo will have to let me out in the morning, but I'll come up with a lie. Nothing has happened yet, but it will. I can feel it coming. And the worse part isn't even the fact that I don't know what it is.

It's that I know I won't be able to control it.

But I'll do anything I can to ensure that my brothers aren't the ones I hurt.

♛

It happened.

I hurt someone.

She was my therapist. She was supposed to help me.

I don't remember what happened.

I do remember afterwards. Waking up from it in her blood. Coming home and Papa cleaning me off. He cried to Mamma in the kitchen. Papa never cries. He told her it was too late for me. 

Then he disappeared into his office for a very long time.

"I knew I was going to hurt her," I whisper to Santo. He hasn't left my side since Papa brought me back. Worry is etched into his face but he looks too scared to ask questions. He knows something awful has happened. "Not her, but someone. I knew."

Who will be next?

An agonized sob shatters the quiet and I don't realize it's mine until I see Santo's stricken face.

"I-I don't know what's happening to me," I cry, my chest aching with the force of everything I can't control. My brothers' safety and my parents, my own head and body—what do I have left? I can't save them. I can't even save myself.

With a small whimper, Santo slides into my bed with me. His small fingers tangle with mine, and he doesn't complain when I squeeze hard.

"You should get out of here while you can," I tell him. It takes everything in me to utter the words but he needs to understand all his options. He can take Tommaso and go.

"You'll be okay," Santo says, ignoring my suggestion. "Whenever you don't know what's happening or who you are, I'll remind you. I'm good at that. I'm also good at changing diapers. I learned when you were gone."

I look at his face, so stubborn and set. I can practically see the way he holds it up against all the chaos that should have him crumbling. But the world could be burning around us and he'd hold my hand with that same look and say, "we'll fight. It'll be okay. As long as you let me help."

I wish that would be enough.

I have a horrible feeling, doomed and heavy, like we're all going to die soon.

In the following days, Papa prepares us for our Serpentine initiation. Santo knows little about it—Papa has only said that Serpentine is like a secret club and if we want to get in, we have to pass a test. But I know what it really is. Yet another bloody birthright that comes with the Romano family name. And it will be taken by one of us.

I think something else is happening with Papa, too—ever since he broke down to Mamma, he seems more distant, like he's not really here. He has a glaze over his eyes as if he's not seeing what's in front of him. 

I recover quickly from what happened—a blackout, I heard Papa call it—but I don't tell anyone I'm better. It's safer for me to stay in my room where I can't hurt anyone. When Mamma and Papa get bad, I put my brothers in their room. Then I sit locked inside my own with my ear pressed to the door. Listening for footsteps.

Sometimes I wonder who will hurt them first. Me, Papa, or Mamma. But all I can do is hope that if I go into another blackout, it'll be too hard for me to get past two locked doors.

I can't hurt anyone else.

Until the day comes when that's exactly what Papa wants me to do. 

Something fundamental in him has changed. I know he was upset when I killed Dr. Erikson. He was sad. But whatever he's been wrestling with since has won. I woke up one morning and didn't recognize my father. 

Or what he's asking me to do to the man standing in his office. 

"But I thought it was bad," I whisper, unnerved by the man's silent presence. Papa's face is tight with anger. He wanted me to kill that man two hours ago. "I thought I wasn't supposed to do that anymore. You told me—"

"When has that mattered? You do what you do without any care for what I or anyone else has to say. That's how we are, son." His eyes flash and he grabs me tightly by the shoulders. "You did this before. Do it again now."

I shake and he lets go of me. A sharp desperation underpins each breath he takes. "Don't you understand the power that will come with this position? Serpentine will give you an outlet. You might actually get to live a normal life. People won't ostracize you or notice how different you are if you have a place you can truly be yourself. This is mercy, son."

Something is different about his eyes. 

I don't know what, or why he looks dead all of a sudden, but he's lying to me. This isn't about me at all. 

I stare at the man I'm supposed to kill and then at the weapons lying on the desk. The glint of the knife makes me feel like I'm going to vomit. I start shaking my head and then I can't stop, backing into the corner and sliding down the wall. I press my hands over my ears and draw my knees to my chest, desperate confusion and panic ringing in my ears.

"I don't want to do it," I cry, suddenly feeling so weak. What I did to Dr. Erikson makes me want to turn the knife around on myself. How can I do it again? "I don't want to do it, I don't..."

I can't take this anymore.

This part of me I feel like I'm supposed to fight—am I? Can I?

In a haze of anguish that feels too big for my body, I stand and pick up the knife. I hear Papa stop breathing, feel his excitement as I turn towards the man.

Then he cries out and lunges for me as I turn the knife around.

"No," he snarls in my face, wrenching the weapon from my grip at the last second. "No. Don't do that. Get the fuck out of here. Actually... stay. Watch."

Despair and desolation nearly render me blind as I watch Papa kill the man. I don't know this man anymore. I don't know where my Papa has gone. And somehow, in that moment, I know I am alone and that I always will be. 

The knife clatters to the floor and Papa wipes a bead of sweat from his brow. There's blood everywhere. And in a way, I feel peace. Because I understand now. 

This will be my fate. And if I'm to turn into this monster, the world would be better without me in it. It would be so easy to stop there, wouldn't it? But if I were to have succeeded just now, I would've left my brothers alone. 

I wasn't thinking. Who would protect them? I'm all they have. 

Stay.

Santo.

Tommaso.

Stay.

My decision settles like fire in my chest. It burns me and as long as I'm here, I know it will continue to burn. But my brothers need me. 

I can gradually feel my mind returning to where it's supposed to be. Something is different up there now. Things feel more... pronounced. Sometimes I swear I can feel something shifting, like someone is moving different parts around and causing the weight and balance to shift. 

Santo, Tommaso, I'll stay.

It fights off the darkness for now, gives me something to hold onto. I screw my eyes shut and let that undeniably human feeling take root, the one that tells me I have to stay and I have to take care of them, and I don't let up even when Papa tries to slap me out of it or when he picks me up and drags me to my room and leaves me there with a slam of the door.

But it will come at high costs. The first of which awaits Santo any day now. Since I wasn't able to do what Papa wanted, Santo will have to do it. One of us has to succeed, and he will—I know that. Santo is impulsive and reckless. He doesn't understand the weight of this yet.

It's my first complete and utter failure as their brother. And the desperate pull in my chest, the aching need to do better, to keep them safe from everything that will come after this is the only thing that clears my head.

If there ever comes a day I don't have my brothers by my side, that's when I know I'll be doomed.

♛

Present day.

I surface from a dark pit to the disarming presence of another body in my space. She's all lustrous curves, sharp cinnamon eyes, and honeyed skin. Black vanilla and sweet wine. That stubborn line of her jaw. She looks like heaven and hell.

And she's in my apartment.

It's through a haze that I track the movements of her hips as she walks over to me, kneeling too close. The proximity fills me with a desperate itching feeling, but my body is too destroyed to move. Regaining control over myself is like swimming through a dark ocean with a fifty-pound rock strapped to my chest.

"You passed out in the hallway." Her voice. It cuts through all the noise. "Nobody saw—"

My breath is ragged. "Move away from me."

Red roses. Cigarettes. 

She frowns. "What?"

It's okay, my little prince. 

"Back up."

Miraculously, she obeys me for the very first time. I roll my head back against the wall, keeping her in my sight. Making sure she doesn't try to come closer again. The flames licking at the inside of my chest gradually die down and Vivienne never looks away once. Blatant curiosity shines on her face as she peruses the state I'm in. The woman is unapologetically inquisitive. It seems that nothing makes her uncomfortable. 

I can't gather the energy to order her to leave altogether. But I wish she would. I'm not in a place where I can feel anything but upheaval from another presence. Not fully in control of myself yet. I couldn't fight back.

But Vivienne has made clear to me that she doesn't give up easily on what she wants. And right now, she doesn't look like she wants to leave without getting answers.

"There it is," she eventually says. She has a look on her face like something very important to her has been validated. "I knew you were at least somewhat human."

I test out the strength of my limbs, choosing to skip over whatever she's just uttered. But then I realize I can't actually move. I'm wrapped in... pink blankets?

"What is this?" My voice sounds breathless, even to my own ears, as I shrug out of the constraints. 

"You almost froze to death," she shrugs. "That's all I had. Do you feel cold still?"

 "What are you doing here?"

"Fuck if I know," she shrugs again. "I could've killed you. I could've ended all of this. But of course then we would run into the issue of who would come looking for you. And whether I want to deal with them or not."

I regard her closely. She speaks as if she possesses the ability to end a life—and I doubt she does. But more importantly, I know that if she didn't possess it, she'd discover a way. I can read the stubborn determination in her face. Her fierceness is as persistent as a branding iron on the skin; it refuses to go unacknowledged.

"I don't know anything about you," she continues. "Touching you could be like setting off a land mine."

It hits me then, the fact that I heard her voice as I was coming to. And saw her place my phone back on the counter.

"You were talking to someone. Who?" She purses her lips, and the look on her face fills me with an obsessive urgency. "Who, Vivienne?"

"Your brother called. He's very rude."

An icy feeling infiltrates my chest. Tommaso. Of course. "What did you tell him. What did you say?"

She rolls her eyes, and I'm struck yet again by her audacity. "Nothing. The fact that there's two of you is slightly terrifying. I can barely handle one."

And why you keep trying to handle one is beyond me.

I lean forward, breathing past the pain that accompanies the movement. "Nothing? No details about where we are?"

She shakes her head, looking down at her hands and twisting the gold rings on her slender fingers with an unnerving lack of urgency.

"Vivienne. Focus. Look at me," I snap. She obeys but her walls immediately go up. She hates being told what to do. "Tell me the exact words you said to him."

"I didn't tell him anything. I asked him things. Like how I'm supposed to beat your ass." She sighs. "But it seems he's loyal to you, despite the fact that for some reason, you're running away."

Something sharp licks at my chest, overtaking my intense relief at my whereabouts remaining a secret. "Get out."

She doesn't move. I drag myself to my feet, spurred by the need to get her out of my space, and before I know exactly what I'm doing, I wrap my hands around her wrists and tug her to a stand. Her skin is a hot and breathing thing against mine. Even as it burns me, I can't let go.

She doesn't make a sound as I back her into the wall, careful to keep several inches of space between our bodies. I release one wrist to lodge a hand snugly around her neck, forcing her to look at me.

I'm supposed to do it now.

She's still here, and I expressly told her what would happen if she didn't clear out. It's good that she didn't run—I have the distinct impression that wherever this woman goes, she will remain a problem for me. Vivienne would move across the country and still find a way to butt into my business, to protect her friends, her home, this town. Even the fluttery little landlord who seems so fond of her.

Yes, it's good that she's still here. So I can efficiently tie up this loose end.

But there's something about killing her that doesn't sit right with me and I'm unable to do anything but recognize it for what it is.

Curiosity.

I am curious about this woman who refuses to be scared or put off by me. She looks at me with a fire in her eyes and speaks to me in a way nobody else dares to.

She tells me things that are entirely foreign. I am knowledgeable in many areas—I know how to manage my men, strategize calmly and effectively no matter the situation, and make more money than anyone would know what to do with. I know how to manage my clubs and casinos, control an entire city without any of the wrong people knowing my face.

I do not know how to respond to someone who has told me, multiple times now, how human I am.

Those foxlike eyes narrow. She doesn't struggle to move away or panic that her airflow is restricted; she simply watches me. Her rose petal lips part, and I can feel her pulse points fluttering beneath my hands.

Not in fear. I've always been good at sniffing out fear. Vivienne isn't scared of me.

"You can't do it," she breathes, eyes laughing at me in triumph. 

"You have faith in all the wrong things," I say, and since I can't look away from her lips, I force myself to at least push her away. 

Stepping back, I'm convinced if I were to look down at my hands there would be painful welts coating them from the skin-to-skin contact. My head feels like it's going to explode from sudden unwanted memories poking into my consciousness. Perhaps I'm turning into my brothers now, seeking out punishment in what I know will ruin me.

This time when I tell her to leave, she listens. But that sweet scent of her remains long after she's gone.