Page 1 of Gilded Princess

Prologue

MATTEO

Sweat clings to the back of my neck and underneath my arms, but I don’t move to wipe it off. I’d rather suffer the persistent itch than incur the wrath of my father.

He’s on a warpath tonight.

Earlier at dinner, he told me to lay out my Sunday best and be ready at midnight. It was time for me to step into my role as a member of our family. Ma started crying, and then Dad got mad, and they started arguing—per usual.

I don’t understand why she’s so upset. I’m old enough to help out the family now, and it’ll be good for me to learn how to do more stuff and make Ma’s life easier.

Plus, the more focus I keep on me, the less time my father has to terrorize anyone else.

So here I am, baking in my black suit I wear to church on Sundays in my father’s office. The air feels heavy this time of year, but my father’s office doesn’t have any windows to open. It’s all dark wood and dark rugs. It’s all dark wood and dark rugs. Intimidating and lightless, just like him.

My uncle Abram and my cousin Nico sit in the chairs across from my dad, who’s reclined behind his massive oak desk. He’s smoking a cigar and staring at the two men in front of him, his posture deceptively calm. His shoulders are loose, and he’s casually puffing on his cigar.

It’s a demeanor I’ve seen all too often.

Tension simmers in the air, so thick I can almost see it. Dad asked me to stand behind him to the right and stay against the wall, no matter what. I’m not entirely sure what will happen tonight, but I can’t imagine it’s anything good.

Uncle Abram adjusts his tie and cranes his neck to the side to release the tension as the silence continues.

Without a word, Dad slides open his top desk drawer and pulls out a gun.

“Half-assed murder plots are for boys. In this family, you act like a man. So, let this be a lesson to you, son. If you want to be the king, you have to kill the king.”

My eyes widen as I glance between the gun my father placed on the desk and my cousin. He’s eight years older than me, so we didn’t exactly grow up together, but I always looked up to him. My palms feel clammy, and I stifle the urge to wipe them off on my pants. I know he hates it when I fidget.

“Do you understand why this is necessary?” Dad looks over his shoulder at me, waiting for my answer.

I nod, even though I don’t understand. The memory of Dad making me watch The Godfather years ago flashes before my eyes. He told me this is what I should expect from our family, and at the time, I thought he was being sarcastic.

I was wrong.

He turns toward Uncle Abram. “The choice is yours, brother. Either you or him.”

If he’s surprised, Uncle Abram doesn’t show it. He stares back at Dad, unflinching. “You know my choice, Angelo.” He turns toward Nico. “I love you, son. No matter what.”

Dad nods twice before he picks up the gun and points it at Uncle Abram. He fires two shots. Uncle Abram’s body jerks violently, tipping over the chair.

I jump with each crack of the gun, unable to stifle my shock.

He shifts his hold to point it at Nico. His eyes look like saucers, bloodshot and wide.

“Uncle Angelo, please. D-d-don’t do this. My dad—”

A gunshot splits the air.

Nico’s eyes shine with tears, disbelief slackening his jaw. He pushes a hand to his chest, and bright red blood oozes out between his fingers.

Another shot lands in between his eyes, Nico’s head jerking back in a swift, violent motion.

“I don’t give second chances.” His words are slow and contemplative like he’s wondering if there’s rain in the forecast today.

I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood, desperate to keep my fear inside. Anything to keep my dad’s focus off of me.

It’s selfish. A coward’s move. But at twelve, I know I can’t win against him.

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