Lost & Found

FOUR

School was a horrendous, soul-sucking affair that required every fiber of my being to endure. There were only a few things you had to know. Just like any typical elementary school, there were popular kids, weird outcasts, and nomads like me who fell somewhere in the middle of it all.

Unfortunately, all these kids, unpopular scum or not, had parents who were absolutely loaded.

St. Luke's Academy cost as much in tuition each year as my Mama and Daddy's old two-bedroom house in the middle of Germany. And a school full of wealthy brats came with the shittiest plethora of attitudes known to mankind. If scientists conducted studies on my school, they'd find the origins of psychopathy nestled deep within the roots of every single one of those little brats.

I begged Vincenzo to let me attend a regular elementary school. One where the girls wore twinkle toes instead of freshly polished Burberry sandals. But every time, he claimed he wouldn't have an 'illiterate' child living under his roof and adamantly refused my demands.

So, every morning, I typically ended up in the backseat of a sleek black Mercedes with Robert as my chaperone, transporting me to my own personal hell. Today, apparently, Papa had some business to attend to on the way, so he rode with us.

"I don't want to go to school today," I groaned, slumping against the car door.

Vincenzo sat across from me in an obsidian suit that clung to the muscles of his arms as he typed away on his phone, not bothering to spare a glance in my direction.

I looked down at my own two arms; they appeared frail and a bit limp. I frowned.

"Ciaoooo? Dad, did you hear me? I said—"

"I don't care, Alexander. We're not having this discussion. You're going to school."

"But I can't. I don't have any lunch money. I'll starve."

"Gesù Cristo," Papa turned to Robert. "Is he like this every day?"

"No, he's way worse. I'm scared of that kid, man."

"You should be, Robert," I sneered, my voice thick with disdain.

Robert shot my father a pinched look that said, "See what I mean?"

"Alexander, you're in fifth grade. How hard can it be to sit at a desk and count to ten?"

"About as hard as it is to sit in an office and plan people's death," I smirked. "Papá, don't forget that I'm going home with Cole after school."

Cole was one of my only two friends. The idiot accidentally revealed, only a week after meeting me in class, that his father was the head of the Irish mob. After he told me, I remember him tensing, all the muscles in his face scrunching like elastic. The look only increased when I'd asked if his father's men wore kilts to drug deals.

I didn't tell him who Papá was—omertà until morte. But the whole code of silence thing was shattered after I saw him at another Mob boss's wedding a few weeks later. Since then, he and I had been practically inseparable. It was refreshing to talk to someone who understood the world I'd been thrust into.

Which was why I wholeheartedly trusted him to help me carry out the mission I had in mind.

"Sí," Papá nodded, finally looking up from his phone. "Don't act recklessly, Alexander. If his father targets you for some foolish stunt, I'll have no choice but to retaliate, potentially sparking a war. And in a war, they'll most likely go after Sammy first. You don't want Sammy to die, do you?"

I shook my head slowly. "No, not at all."

"Good," a sly grin crept onto Papá's face. "Then don't make any rash decisions. Do you understand me?"