Dark Saint [Romano Brotherhood, #1]

I think I could stand anything, any suffering, only to be able to say and to repeat to myself every moment, 'I exist.' In thousands of agonies—I exist. I'm tormented on the rack—but I exist! Though I sit alone in a pillar—I exist! I see the sun, and if I don't see the sun, I know it's there. And there's a whole life in that, in knowing that the sun is there. - Fyodor Dostoevsky

Hell is empty and all the devils are here. - William Shakespeare

The little girl’s wild, dark hair streams out behind her as she runs through the grass, squealing before she remembers that her father doesn’t like it when she’s too loud. Smacking her lips shut, she erupts in giggles as her mother reaches down and scoops her up.

“What’s so funny, gioia?” Her mother murmurs, speaking in soft, elegant tones as always.

“I put a worm on Carlo’s head,” the little girl admits in a near whisper. She twists, glancing back at her brother. His dark, glossy hair reflects the sun as he frowns at the small worm now lying in the grass.

The older woman’s face pales even as she gives her daughter a smile, smoothing back some of her unruly locks. “You must not mess with Carlo. Remember why?”

The little girl squirms at the gentle admonishment. “Because father will get mad.”

Her mother nods, pressing a kiss to the girl’s temple.

“Mama, why is Carlo’s hair like that?” Jealousy creeps into the little girl’s tone. She’s always noticed that her brother’s hair is different than hers; hers doesn’t shine and shimmer in the sun like his does. Hers is duller, darker, and untamed—always a mess no matter what her mother does—while Carlo’s is pin straight.

Her mother sighs, shifting the little girl in her arms as she begins walking back to the house. Play time is over; father wants her back inside. Carlo gets to play outside for a little longer, since he’s older.

“Because you two are different people, Nina.”

The little girl looks up at her mother. “How different, Mama?” The idea makes her sad. She wants to be just like her brother. Maybe then they can be friends. Best friends, even.

But Angelina Genovese isn’t looking at her daughter. Her gaze is fixed ahead, on the house. The little girl turns to see her father standing at the doorway, bulky arms crossed in front of his chest. He looks angry. He always does—especially when he’s working—but it seems to radiate from him now, turning the air around them sour.

He jerks his head, gesturing for the woman to follow him, barking out a gruff “bring the child” when she tries to set the little girl down.

“Luciano, please—”

“Don’t make me fucking repeat myself.”

Trembling, the woman follows him inside. The little girl is quiet, sensing that something is very, very off. She can feel every one of her mother’s trembles, and it fills her with fear. She hugs her little arms around her mother’s neck, wanting to make her feel better.

“Luci—”

“Angelina, I swear to you, keep your fucking mouth shut or we’ll do this right here. I can’t fucking listen to your voice right now. Did you think I wouldn’t fucking find out?”

“Please, she’s not a part of this—”

“Five years. Five fucking years. She is a part of this!” The little girl jumps as her father’s voice becomes a booming roar. “She’s the biggest part of this. That child is what you have to show for the act you committed against me, your husband. I hope she was fucking worth it. You fucked everything up for us. Know that, Angelina. What happens next, you brought on yourself.”

They come to a stop in front of a room at the very back of the house. Her mother closes her eyes, tears dropping down her white cheeks.

The second the door clicks shut behind them, the little girl notices three other men standing along the wall, men she knows. They work with her father, so they come around the house often, and she doesn’t like them. They’re wrong. The way they move, how they talk. The way they look at her. Wrong. She whimpers, wanting to go back outside. Just wanting to leave this room.

“You know, I think I always knew,” her father barks out a sharp laugh. “It’s funny, Lina—I never did feel like she was mine. I never felt for her what I feel for Carlo. Now, that boy, he is my blood. He will grow up with everything he needs. Your daughter? Well. I haven’t decided how she’s going to grow up. But I think it’s going to start with her watching.”

Her mother sobs as he turns, his lips pulled into the shape of a smile. He never really looks like he’s smiling, even when he is. It reminds the little girl of the clay she plays with whenever her mother lets her. She loves art. Making things. She makes little people with clay and sticks big, happy smiles on them—but they look weird. The smiles are fake, deformed, unnatural looking no matter how hard she tries to make them look real.

Sometimes, when her father is yelling, she imagines he’s just a clay man. Scary and evil looking, but unable to cause pain. Because clay people can’t hurt people.

Her mother’s grip on her is iron tight as one of the men starts approaching them.

“Please, Luciano, please,” she’s sobbing, begging. “Please don’t do this! Take her away, don’t make her watch this, please.”

But the man continues to advance, rearing back and delivering a decisive punch to the woman’s cheek. She stumbles back, keeping a tight hold on her daughter. Her daughter who has lost the battle to stay calm and is crying for her mother. Wanting her father to leave. Just leave. Along with the rest of the men.

Men hurt. All they do is hurt.

Luciano Genovese doesn’t leave.

“Do you think she’ll remember, Angelina? Do you think it will haunt her?” He slides in front of the man and pulls out a knife, still talking. “I hope she does. I hope every time she sees me, she remembers that she won’t be anything thanks to her mother.”

Lip bleeding, her mother whispers, “listen to me. Focus on me. Not him. I love you, gioia. My joy.” And all other voices fade out as the little girl listens to her mother, latches onto her so tightly her fingers and arms and heart hurt. Her father still has that clay smile as he comes closer, fingers tensing around the blade.

Gioia. My joy.

They’re the last words her mother will ever speak to her.