Kiss of War

Prologue

LEONARDO

A field of death surrounded me as I kneeled next to the marble crypt. The color was stark, a beacon among the tilted and moldy gravestones planted in the cemetery for much longer. Young blood had been spilled, fresh soil had been dug.
Pebbles poked my knees, the steps leading to the entrance were littered with them. I could feel the pieces of gravel through the thick material of my jeans, a reminder that this was indeed real.
The Massachusetts summer heat was no match for the war brewing inside me as I traced the letters on the plaque. I worked my way up the epitaph—Beloved Daughter, Sister, Granddaughter & Friend. You are always in the hearts of those you touched. For nothing loved is ever lost and you loved so much—to the dips and the curves of the year of her death—2017—to her name. My sister's name.
Isabella Bianchi.
Blood roared in my ears, and an outburst of warmth burned a path from my heart down to my veins, and on to my hand as it curled over the engraved I, my nails digging into my palms.
The end.
This was the end for my twin.
We all died eventually, be it humans, plants, or animals. Death was inevitable and a stepping
stone to utter oblivion. It surrounded us every day—sick patients in hospitals, old people in walkers, and junkies in alleyways. We lived it and we breathed it, but we never grasped the full cataclysmic impact it had until we experienced it.
I had a habit of being the most confident person in a room. The one people always tried to please,
the one whose smile they tried the hardest to earn. It was a mindset, one my family held close to heart. Lead and others will follow.
Nothing touched us.
Nothing harmed the third richest family in the United States of America, sixth in the world.
Yet... my sister was dead.
The dirt on her grave still hadn't settled. We buried her a mere five hours ago, and I stayed
planted in the same spot I'd been in since the start of the funeral. I watched as the lot emptied and relatives and friends returned back to their glitzy cars, some of them chatting lively as if this was a social gathering, a chance to catch up, and my twin wasn't lying dead, six feet underground.
No one cared. No one ever truly cared.
The apathy was a real eye-opener. It forced me to harden my shell, lock in my anger and grief until they overflowed. I felt them everywhere. They drowned my senses, muting my touch with reality. My ears rang, and my eyes stung. I lived in the City of Stars, yet a vortex of darkness hung heavy over my shoulders.
This was Isabella's end, but it felt like my beginning.
One born out of shadows and blood.
I didn't realize Francis Roux traded in his paintbrushes for swords and spears until it was too
late. I didn't know he'd developed an interest in the art of war too, until my sister's violated body washed up ashore on Long Beach.
The back of my neck was burned to a crisp, and I tilted my head up, facing the cloudless sky and letting the cruel rays of the overbearing sun ravage my green eyes.
Every breath I took dragged with unearned privilege. Guilt that I hadn't protected Isabella stirred the blood in my veins, and my need for revenge made it race faster. I was blind to my enemies before, but I wouldn't forget their names anytime soon now.
So, with wrath as my witness, I took an oath not to fucking rest until the entire Roux clan faced a worse end than Isabella. The countdown started the moment the thought filled my head, and each sharp inhale coating my lungs counted as a day lost for them.