Page 71 of Thorns of Silence
I flicked a glance toward him. “You like it?”
The corner of his lips twitched for the first time in months. “Anything is better than what Father had.”
I rubbed a hand down my face. “I never thought I’d say this, but this amnesia is somewhat convenient when it comes to certain things.”
It was as if my mind erased the things it couldn’t handle. I knew I hated Father’s guts, but I didn’t remember vivid details of his beatings like my brother did. Yes, the memories had somewhat come back, but they remained hazy. I remembered Father made Mother’s life hell, but again, not in as great detail as Amon. Albeit, I remembered enough to know she suffered. We all did.
I didn’t remember what happened during the weeks of my kidnapping or some months prior to it. I knew I spent time in California only because Amon told me. I knew I needed to secure a grape crop only because Amon told me. Yet, there were times I felt like there were things I was missing. Important things.
“It will come back,” he said dryly. “Eventually.”
My gut twisted. I wasn’t sure if I wanted it to. Instinctively, I knew there were unpleasant things lurking in the shadows of my memory. Some nights I felt those forces torturing my mind. I fought them, convincing myself they weren’t real.
Life was more tolerable when my mind rejected the ghosts. I gave my head a small shake.Jesus H. Christ.I sounded like a wimp. I tapped my pen on the desk, leaned back, and met my brother’s gaze.
“Let those fucking memories come,” I said, gritting my teeth. “I’d squash them too.”
He smoothed his tie and got to his feet, buttoning his jacket. “You just tell me when you need me.” I nodded. I loved my brother. Knowing he was here for me despite his own shit meant a lot, and I wished I could do something to repay the favor. “Ready, Leone-Omertà boss?”
I got to my feet and buttoned my own jacket. “I am. But I have a stop to make first.”
* * *
Three hours later, Amon and I stood in front of the restaurant outside Rome where Marchetti usually held meetings.Rosa Spinosa, which translated to Thorned Rose, was owned by Enrico Marchetti.
“I can’t believe you got a tattoo of a fucking dandelion,” Amon remarked for the fifth time.
My skin still burned, tender from the buzzing of the needle. We had stopped at the tattoo parlor where I had my guy put ink over and around the scar caused by Nix’s bullet wound. I couldn’t think of a better tattoo than that of a dandelion with the pappus carried by the wind to commemorate Nix and me graduating to the next level of our relationship.
An acute sense of guilt slithered through me, ignoring my willful amnesia at remembering that day. The look in her eyes when I came to my senses. My hold around her slim neck. My terror at seeing the fingerprints on her pale skin.My fucking fingerprints.
I’d been riddled with guilt and shame ever since then. I could no longer say that I’d never hurt a woman. It was what set me apart from my father—until now.
The words he uttered rang in my ears.Devil reincarnate.Maybe my birth mother was right. But I never wanted to hurtNix. I’d take a thousand beatings and kidnappings to spare her from pain.
“Why are you frowning?” Amon’s voice interrupted my self-hatred. “Don’t tell me you regret the tattoo.”
Shoving the thoughts of guilt out of my mind for now, I met my brother’s eyes and grinned. “You like it, don’t you?”
He shrugged. “I just think it’s odd as fuck.”
I chuckled. “You’re one to talk. What’s the deal with you and this yin and yang shit?”
“Don’t be jealous because I’m cooler,” Amon muttered, his hand reflexively moving to touch his own fresh tattoo, still under the plastic wrapping and bandage.
“I loved our bonding time,” I told him sarcastically. “Something we can tell our children about one day.”
“Hmmm.”
We entered the restaurant, leaving the cold January night air behind us.
The Omertà vow was a commitment for life, and I was about to take my own. The organization had evolved over the last few decades. Our fathers believed in flesh trading; we didn’t. Just like Marchetti’s father, ours amassed a large fortune from the sex trafficking trade, something Amon and I, along with the rest of the Omertà, had steered clear of. Thankfully, so did the rest of the members. Except for Romero, whose connections we were using to eliminate cells that still operated under the radar in our territories.
Several soldiers patrolled the streets outside. They were mainly Marchetti’s men. My father never brought his men to these meetings, and my brother and I wouldn’t start now. I had left Cesar to watch over Phoenix since Amon and I usually always handled Omertà business together.
Three sets of eyes landed on us—Marchetti, Romero, and Giovanni Agosti.
“You’re late,” Romero gritted, looking pissed.
