Page 105 of Kissing the Villain

Marcello was nothing like me.

I’d spared him years of pain because of my mother. I took the beatings when my father was at his worst. Two days before my mother’s death, I made her a promise, one I would never forget.

My mother stood on a scaffolding ladder in her studio, with her long, black hair piled on top of her head and two paintbrushes holding it up. She always wore her hair like that when she was painting. She was too focused on her art and couldn’t waste a second looking for a hair tie. When she was in her element, nothing could deter her. We were a lot alike in that regard.

Marcello was eight years old and slowly following in her footsteps. He sat on the floor at an easel, his paintbrush sweeping across the canvas. Marcello was a natural artist who had our mother’s talents.

I tried to paint, but I was like my dad in every way. My book smarts would one day make me a powerful man, and I followed my father’s carefully laid plans. But I often appeased my mother by trying to paint. She was happy to see Marcello and me acting like a family in her studio.

After the time I tried to kill him, I never attempted it. We still weren’t on the best of terms, but I tolerated him for my mom. I liked making her happy and never wanted to hear her call me the son of the Devil again. She loved me more when I was good, and my father loved me more when I was bad like him. So, I learned how to share different parts of myself with my parents.

I strolled toward my mother, the stupid boat shoes she insisted I wear, slapping the floor. Her head snapped in my direction, a smile gracing her red lips. She wore a shade of lipstick that was so vibrant it looked like blood. I liked that color.

That morning, she laid out a pair of black cargo shorts and a navy blue and white striped polo shirt on my bed. She insisted I wear more casual clothes since I preferred suits like my father. He even had Brioni make custom suits in my size so we looked like twins.

“Luca,” my mother said with a smile. “Where have you been hiding?”

“I was helping Dad with something.”

I left out the part where I stuffed a wet cloth into a man’s mouth before my father beat the shit out of him for information. He never hid the violence from me. It started when I was around five years old. When I was older, he involved me in the corrupt side of his business.

My mother climbed down from the ladder and patted the top of my head. “Have you been a good boy today?”

“No,” I admitted.

“Luca,” she sighed. “What did your father make you do?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“You’re a child,” she groaned. “Go play with Drake Battle or Sonny Cormac. They’re your age, sweetie.”

I sneered at her suggestion. “I don’t like them.”

“Why not?” Mom ran her fingers through my hair, which I would have hated if it were anyone else. No one but my mother could touch me. “They’re nice to you. You should ask them to come over and go swimming.”

I shook my head. “No, I’d rather play with Dad. I don’t want to swim.”

“Honey,” she sighed, bending down to meet my height. “Your dad isn’t playing. That’s real.” Her fingers brushed my cheek. “Luca, you need to make some friends. Have a life outside this house that doesn’t involve your father.”

I rolled my shoulders, unaffected. “I don’t need friends. I have you and Dad.”

Her eyebrows knitted. “And Marcello.”

“I don’t want him,” I snapped.

She blew out an irritated breath. “The two of you don’t always get along, but you are brothers. Blood is thicker than water. Promise me,mio principe, that you will care for Marcello.”

She always called me her prince in Italian. My mother spoke English, Spanish, and Italian fluently. Her father was an immigrant from Spain, and her mother was from a small town in Italy.

“I promise,” I said to make her happy.

I found her two days later on the studio floor with her head turned to the side. Her lips were so blue I’d never forgotten the color of death. The stench of a rotting corpse. At that moment, I knew I had to honor her dying wish to protect Marcello. It was the least I could do for the only person who made me feel normal.

My father gripped my bicep, pulling me out of my memories of the past. I turned to look at him, my eyebrows lifted in question.

He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “If Marcello doesn’t make it, you must marry her immediately. Do you understand me?”

I nodded.

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