Page 5 of Promise to Break

"Son, did you lose your shirt? Today, of all days?" Franco scolds. For some reason, I have the urge to stand from my comfortable chair and defend the man who clearly doesn't need defending.

"I had an incident. I apologize, Father."

That voice. I've never heard one so deep and soothing. It's so low I can't imagine him screaming or ever raising his voice. I want to hear it directed at me while he tells me stories about his day. This reaction is so unlike any I've had to another human that it leaves me momentarily speechless.

"I didn't think I was needed for this shit show," he adds in response to Franco. Killian's eyes find mine, and I see it. The void, the malice, the cruelty, the pure emptiness that can come from a killer. Every single rumor is spot on. I know it in an instant.

His gaze leaves me as if he's seen all there was to see, and he found me lacking. Well, fuck him.

"I beg your pardon?" Those words came from me without my intention. Fuck. I didn't mean to speak because when I do, my mouth tends to get me into trouble.

Killian's gaze returns, this time accompanied by a sneer. "And you are? I didn't know my fratello went for a goth kid, a beautiful one, but a kid nonetheless. You could have at least tried to look like you're not a miserable gold digger."

He thinks you're beautiful, the childish voice in me swoons, but I shake it off. "Nor I nor my sister are gold diggers, you tattooed gangster." I vaguely recognize my sister's gasp but pay it no mind. "And I'm not the wife-to-be. She is." I point at Serena's now shocked and worried face.

Shit. I've ruined everything.

"How original. Never heard that before," he says, dismissing my statement as he looks me in the eyes like I'm a nuisance he must get rid of.

The fucker doesn't even know me. Who does he think he is?

I sniff. "If you've heard it so much, it's because it's probably true." I want to say more, knowing I should keep my beak shut. I open it to toss out another barb. Santino interrupts and takes the decision away from me.

"Maricela is the sister of my future wife, and you'll respect Serena and her as a result. Do I make myself clear?" Santino's tone isn't nice, but the cruel boy in front of me doesn't back down.

I keep looking this boy in the eyes, daring him to say something else. He just stands there, looking bored out of his mind.

"I will ask you again," Santino growls, "did I make myself clear? Maricela will be attending the same college as you, and I suggest you treat her the way she deserves."

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Going to that college was not something I expected. Something more chill crossed my mind. I could try arguing about going to another place, but I don't want to make waves in Serena's relationship with her new family, and I've already said way more than I should have.

"Yes, Fratello. It's a promise. I'll treat her as she deserves. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to find a shirt." After tossing one more sneer my way, Killian turns and strides out of the room.

If I only knew how to shut my irrational mouth, maybe then I would have kept my promise to keep my sister safe.

Chapter four

Maricela

Two Years Later

Whoever said all you need to change your life is a moment in time was absolutely and tragically right.

For me, it was my sharp tongue that made my personal hell come true, and fuck, it wasn't that my life was full of candy prior to this year, but at least I knew what to expect back then.

Now, I have to look behind my back every single second I walk through the hallways of West Apex College, one of the most prestigious places around. It's located in a small town near the City of New York in what's called "The Historic Magic Valley."

We have everything a person could possibly need here. Good organic food. Fancy uniforms. A huge gym and an Olympic-sized pool. Oh, and I can't forget the football and soccer fields or the basketball court. It isn't like any other college I've ever seen or heard about.

Each student is obligated to pick at least two professions he would like to work at in the future, and the college provides everything to mimic the real world outside. Even the screaming and demands are part of the experience. I chose the path of baking and journalism.

When I was in the child services system, I hated almost everything related to cooking, even though I wasn't bad at it. What I did love was to bake cookies. When I opted for this subject from hell, it was because I wanted to take something I expected to be lighter and less demanding next to journalism studies. A bad fucking mistake. It's turned out to be anything but easy.

Emanuel, my culinary teacher—or shall I call him Fucking Lord Emanuel?—apparently, came with a royal decree of London or some bullshit that says, "I can be an asshole because I was born with enough money and power, and you can't do shit about it." Among other things, he loves to scream in my face about how I didn't temper the chocolate well enough. "You can't even hear the snapping sound," he spat at me the other day. Oh, how I would love to hear his neck snapping someday.

At least, I adore my journalism studies. I love the aspect of finding the truth and writing about it, but what I love more is taking pictures that speak for my story before it's even written.

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