Page 41 of The Darkest Prince

“When the timing is right, we’ll come for our girl,” Bastian says, and it sounds like a promise. “We’re not letting her go.”

“No, we’re not. Luca will never treat her right. She belongs with us.”

ChapterSixteen

As expected,Alex doesn’t come to our estate to see us before we leave for initiation. Luca looks bitter about it, but he doesn’t say anything. Though, he doesn’t need to. His eyes keep flicking in the direction of Wellington Manor, which is to our left as we stand out front with our father.

Bash grits his teeth, eyeing up Luca. He’s still mad and has every right to be. Alex would have shown up if not for our brother’s attitude. Whatever he said to her last night really set her over the edge.

I brush my fingers against Bastian’s, and he glances at me. We communicate with our eyes, using our unspoken bond. I’m telling him it’s okay to be sad. That I know it fucking hurts. I know pain better than anyone.

The black limousine parks in the circular driveway. Enzo gets out and comes around to open the door for us.

“Mr. Salvatore,” he says to my dad with a nod, his Italian accent thick.

Even after all these years, Enzo still sounds like he just got off the boat from Sicily. He worked for one of the crime bosses in Italy who gifted him to our family, and he’s been with us ever since.

“Enzo.” Dad nods. “It’s a big day.”

“Yes, sir. Your boys are becoming men.” He pats Dad on the arm. “Congratulazioni.”

Luca snorts at his comment, taking offense to being called a boy. We’ve been men for years. All three of us look much older than eighteen, and with how we were raised, we’re mentally years ahead of our time.

Besides, Luca will be nineteen in July with Bash only a month behind him. And I’m in November.

Marcello stands beside our dad, hands shoved into his jeans pockets. He’s wearing a black Henley that makes his huge biceps appear even larger. You can tell he trains daily and never slacks on his workouts.

He’s almost seventeen but looks like he’s in his twenties. The spitting image of our father, who looked exactly like Marcello and Luca when he was younger. Except his sons are a few inches taller than him.

When the three of them stand side-by-side, I can barely tell them apart. Luca acts exactly like our dad, from how he speaks to the way he moves.

But Marcello is so different from both of them. He’s an artist and shy, more like Alex. Marcello doesn’t think we know he paints in his room, even though our father forbade it years ago. There is more than what meets the eye with Marcello.

“My boys,” Dad says, standing in front of the three of us. He rests his hands on Luca and my shoulders, his eyes moving between us. “This is going to be the hardest two months of your lives. But I have prepared you. After a day on the island, you’ll want to leave. Stay strong. The struggle is worth it in the end.”

“Any advice for us?” Bash asks, shifting his stance to his right foot, clearly nervous about going to the island.

“You’re a Salvatore,” Dad says to each of us individually, “Make them fear the name I gave you.”

My heart swells at his words. Our adoptive father is mean and sort of terrifying, but he’s my dad and has been for the past ten years. I have been his son longer than I was Damian Townsend. My biological father is almost a distant memory at this point.

So when Arlo calls us his sons—calls us Salvatores—it means something to me. That’s why I will do anything he asks. Disappointing him is not an option. I want to be part of this family, and so does Bash.

He gives each of us a one-arm hug.

“Good luck,” he tells us. “I’ll be watching from a distance.”

Marcello is beside our dad and tips his head. There is no love lost with Luca and Marcello and definitely no hugging. Luca doesn’t even look back as he climbs into the limo.

Bastian gets in next.

I step toward the door, but Dad grabs my arm.

“Damian, you’re special,” he says, his voice low but deep. “You will have the easiest time on the island. The things I have taught you… Use those skills to survive. Understand?”

My hunting skills.

I nod. “Yes, sir.”

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