Page 11 of The Don's Hidden Heir

The night she left, she called me a “monster.” My memory drifts back to that night. Her hazel eyes sparkled under the moonlight pouring in from the glass wall in my suite, her expression grim.

Elena had always been a ball of warm, bright, summer sunlight. Her energy was so contagious it rubbed off on me. The moment I saw the tears in her eyes that evening, I knew something was wrong.

And it was.

She told me she was leaving me, begged me not to look for her as if I was a parasite she was dying to rid herself of.

Then she left me.

No explanation. No second chances. She just up and left.

I hate her. I despise her. And I don’t ever want to hear of her again. “I do not want to talk about her.” My voice is strained. I’ve tried not to think of her, but she’s the one person I’ve never been able to forget.

How is it possible to hate someone so much, yet still not hate them completely? Even after throwing my heart to the dogs, it’s like she still has me wrapped around her pretty fingers.

“Are you sure, man?” he asks, still staring at me, as if he can see through my blank mask. I wonder if he can sense that even now, my heart is throbbing for Elena, and my cock is yearning for the feel of her around it.

Dante knows me better than I know myself, and it scares me sometimes.

“Lie all you want, bro. But you can’t shut your feelings off just because you don’t want to feel them.”

I send a dark look his way, but he doesn’t relent. “I can find her if you want me to.”

The offer is tempting, but his persistence causes my fists to clench. My ring has dry crusts of blood around it, and I need a fucking shirt. “Speak of her one more time, and it’ll be the last time you speak,” I warn him, pushing up from my seat. “Also, I’m your boss, not your bro.”

I grab my jacket and start for the door.

Dante’s voice follows me outside the office. “Where are you going?”

“I have dinner plans with my brother,” I answer over my shoulder. I don’t care if Dante heard my reply or not. I’ve yet to see my brothers since I landed in New York last night.

Early this morning, Vincent me sent a text, inviting me to dinner at Romano Manor—our parents’ home. I haven’t been there since I left seven years ago, and although I dread the notion of having a supposedly happy diner in the same place our parents met their end, I can’t turn my brother down.

But first, I need to change, to take off this blood drenched shirt.

***

There’s a hushed silence as I drive through the white gate of Romano Manor. The only sounds that keep me company are the occasional chirping of birds, the whisper of my tires on the tarred road and the fluttering of the red maples lining the drive.

The silence sends chills up my spine, as if I’m a twelve-year-old who’s been abandoned in a cemetery at midnight.

It’s been this way since my parents were murdered here ten years ago. I’ll never forget the vacant look in their eyes when I walked in that night. The stench of their fresh warm blood still haunts me.

And it’s a constant reminder of why I chose to return to New York, and why I decided to rule this city. I must find their killer, and I must repay blood with blood. Death with death. My need for revenge is an anthem that blares in my head before I go to sleep every night.

I bring my car to a halt in front of a water fountain across the staired porch that leads inside the mansion, my headlights flashing on an old willow tree across the entrance before it fades to darkness

Sliding out of the car, I stride into the mansion. I find my brothers—both of them—sitting in the living room.

“Fratello,” Vincent says, our eyes meeting. He stands up from one of the cream colored sofas and strides to me, a smile beaming in his eyes. “Welcome home,” he says. He opens his arms for a hug.

Vincent is the youngest of the three of us. At only twenty-eight, he has managed to build a reputation for himself as CEO of an automotive company. Maybe it’s because he is the youngest and didn’t face the pressure of becoming the perfect heir, but unlike Marcus and I, he isn’t very involved in the mafia.

If anything, he detests the mafia and chooses not to get involved.

We’re often at loggerhead with each other given the differences in our personalities and beliefs, but it doesn’t change the fact we come first with each other.

“La ringrazio,”I reply, accepting his hug. My brothers are the only family I have, and as much as I hate the display of affections, I do not mind showing it to them.

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