Page 38 of Thorns of Silence
With a disgusted look on his face, he turned on his heel and disappeared out of the room. Once I was certain he was out of earshot, I scolded my mother softly. “Why did you get between us? Let him lose his shit so I can get rid of him once and for all.”
She waved her hand and clicked her tongue. “Always so quick to resort to violence.”
I shot her a look, cocking a brow. “Why would you even want to keep him alive? The man’s a scumbag. Abusive. Evil. He preys on the weak.”
She might not have been my biological mother, but she always treated me as such. I had never been deprived of her love. And for that, I’d forever be grateful to her, which meant she had my protection by default.
“Don’t let him get the best of you,” she said softly.
“He was asking for it,” I retorted dryly. “After all, it’s been two decades and the fucker still roams this earth. I’m getting impatient.”
Mother’s love was the only affection Amon and I had ever known. My own mother died giving birth to me, or so I was told. The whispers I’d heard growing up were that she killed herself. When I’d asked Mother, she brushed me off and said speaking of the dead wasn’t wise. There was only one change in the way Mother treated Amon and me—she went harder on him, claiming he’d have to overcome greater hurdles because he was the illegitimate son.
“I know, but killing him isn’t the answer,” she explained, cupping my cheek gently. Outside of my mother, there was only one other woman whose touch didn’t repulse me. In fact, I craved it, which was unusual. But apparently she was disgusted by me. Oh the fucking irony. “That will only stain your soul.”
I scoffed, then walked over to the window that overlooked the sea. This castello in Trieste could be a sanctuary—key phrase beingcould be—if only that fucker were dead. The only reason I loved it was because it belonged to the woman who had birthed me. I didn’t know much about her aside from whatever sparing details Mother had shared. She’d apparently been sickly and mostly bedridden for the last two years of her life before having me and passing away.
“Don’t you think my soul is already stained, Mother?”
Her soft footsteps approached, the evidence of her own horrors crunching at her feet. “No, Dante. It’s not. Have you remembered something?” I shook my head. “Have you and Amon made any progress with Tomaso?”
I shook my head, instantly feeling guilty for forgetting about the damn document my mother had us searching for. It hadn’t crossed my mind once since crossing paths with Romero’s oldest daughter.
All my attention had been focused onher. I even stayed in Paris more than usual so I’d be close to her, finding solace in her proximity. Watching her was my new favorite thing to do. The way her dark hair caught different shades of chestnut, auburn, and brown under the summer sun. The rare moments it would catch in her eyes and turn them liquid blue stole my breath.
“Dante, did you hear me?” Mother’s voice interrupted my fixation on Nix.
“I’m sorry, Mother. I got distracted. What was that again?”
“Are you staying for a while?”
“No, I have to get back to Paris. And I prefer to stay away from him,” I said pointedly.
I never felt at ease here. Now, if I were finally given the green light to rid the property of Father’s wrath? That would be a different story. I glanced around me. Nothing but a vast, blue sea in front of me and rough, rocky hills behind me. I always opted to stare at the blue horizon. I’d started to do it when I met Phoenix Romero all those years ago. She was eight and I was twelve. When her crystal blue eyes met mine, I decided I’d never give up this place. I could remember vividly thinking that one day, I’d bring her into my castle and throw away the key.
Of course, I’d forgotten all about that until we crossed paths again. As was the story of my pathetic life these days.
“What’s got you so distracted?”
Phoenix Romero.She was all I thought about lately. I couldn’t get her out of my fucking mind, even if I wanted to. The scary part was that I didn’t.
But for some reason, I didn’t want to tell her about the Romero girl. Mother’s hate for Tomaso Romero extended to anything he was associated with, so naturally his daughters wouldn’t be in her good graces.
“Don’t worry about that.” I even managed to twist a smile for her.
“You never answered me about whether you remembered anything else,” she pointed out.
I shook my head, clearing it of a certain dark-haired woman who seemed to consume all my thoughts lately.
“Remember what?” I asked.
“From the time of your captivity.” Every time she broached the subject, agony and fear crossed her expression. I hated that she suffered and worried about it. I remembered nothing, and even when nightmares plagued me, they were never specific. Only ever shadows.
I returned my eyes to the stretch of blue beyond the castle. “No. Nothing.”
Her hand came to rest on my back. “One day you will.”
Truthfully, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to remember.
