Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 54522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Control is safety. Maintaining total, uncontested control prevents further losses.
I swig the entire contents of my glass, letting the whisky coat my throat with a warm and pleasant burning sensation that helps to take the edge off my troubled thoughts. Isla’s tattoo reminded me of my father, and of the one thing that I despise most in the world—betrayal.
I press my eyes closed for a moment as I let the image of my father’s tattoo form in my head. He had two sparrows on his chest, not entirely unlike the one behind Isla’s ear, except my father’s piece was larger, darker, and intricately inked over his muscles. He told me once that the two birds, which seemed to twist around each other as if they were dancing, were a symbol that reminded him of freedom, loyalty, and love. Freedom because of the flight birds can take at any moment, loyalty because sparrows bond for life, and loyalty because sparrows live in large colonies that claim a nest site, which they return to and protect throughout their days.
He was a good man, my father. To him, those three things were worth dying for—which he did.
I can see it as clearly as if it were yesterday, myself as a boy, a childhood coated in blood and betrayal. Not even the whisky can keep the vivid flashback at bay. I was only seventeen, practically still a child. But in all the ways that mattered, I was ready to be a man and a leader, especially after that night. I just could not have predicted it to happen how it did. I admired my father’s vast power, but power’s weakness is letting others in. My father didn’t see it coming. His closest friend and ally, Angelo Barone, blinded him with what he perceived as loyalty. As a kid, I thought of my father’s friend as an uncle. After that night, he became my greatest rival and enemy. Men whispered; a quiet rumor suggested my father’s friend was suspicious. But my father, God rest his soul, cherished his allies almost as much as he hated his enemies. He never imagined his closest friend would betray him until it happened. My father’s one fatal flaw was that he trusted people. The night of that bloody coup did more than just cost me my parents and orphan my sister and me; it also taught me a cruel, stark lesson that I would never forget—to trust no one.
I open my eyes and run my hand along the scar just below my collarbone. A badge of honor from my first kill. I earned it when I shot the man Angelo Barone sent to kill my father. Executing that man who had been hiding in plain sight, pretending to be a trusted confidant while secretly infiltrating my father’s organization, was the first time I’d ever killed anyone with my own hands. He tried to cut me down with a knife he pulled out of his coat pocket, and I got close enough to let him get a slice in on me because I wanted to shoot him at point-blank range. Watching that asshole’s life leave and his skull split in two gave me a satisfying feeling, I must admit. But it didn’t bring back my parents, nor did it bring back my soul. Instead, that singular moment launched me into unimagined violence. Violence that I became increasingly and almost impeccably good at over time, but that wasn’t without consequence.
I sigh and head back to the bottle of whisky sitting on the counter. This time, I pour myself a double. I take great pride in the empire that I’ve built, especially since I took over the family business when I was only twenty-four. Perhaps that very pride is my deadly sin. But unlike my father, I run things a bit differently. I have zero tolerance for betrayal. At the very first whiff of disloyalty, I snuff out the source without mercy. As with the man backstage at the ballet. What happened to my father will never happen to me, even if I have to be more of a monster than he ever was. “Monster” is a vast understatement regarding my nature. They were right to call me The Devil after I burned down one of Angelo Barone’s brothels, with everyone inside the place trapped alive as the flames consumed the burning building. Even now, as I take a slow sip of my top-shelf whisky and pace my empty penthouse, I have no regrets over that. Even now, I can still hear the screams coming from inside. But anything I can do to take from that man what he took from me brings me nothing but pleasure. No matter how ruthless it is.
One thing haunts me, even awake, more than past violence. It’s the one thing that keeps me emotionally locked down and causes me to root out and eradicate weakness, especially if it’s weakness that lies within myself. The one loss I can never move past, for which I feel responsible, and which showed me that love is simply a burden—“Mia,” I whisper to myself as I fight back the sadness that I refuse to feel. “My little sister.”