Dark Saint [Romano Brotherhood, #1]

PART TWO | Prologue

The little boy is on the floor, and his mother is on top of him. 

The knife in her hand glints sharply in the moonlight that pours into the bedroom. Her eyes are black like he's never seen them, dark hair obscuring her face as she leans over him, pressing the knife closer to his chest.

One second, he was arguing with his brother about what they were going to have for dinner—they haven't eaten for days, since Mamma has gotten sicker—and the next, she was bursting through the doors with a terrifying look in her eyes and a kitchen knife in her hand.

It's shocking. Not because his mother is pressing a knife into his chest, but because this is the closest she's gotten. It's the closest his brother has let her get.

It's been years of the little boy trying to get her to love him, years of living in fear and confusion. But this moment, this one right now—he's pretty sure the entirety of his short life thus far has been leading up to this, and that he deserves it.

He must. He's done things—unspeakable things that have put blood on his hands already. He must deserve it.

Nevertheless, the boy cries. He can't stop—even though his father always used to tell him that kind of display of emotion was pointless. Even though he knows he shouldn't cry when he's the one who brought this upon himself. He cries because this is how it's going to finally end and he's realizing he wants to live a little more. Wants to try to make things right this time—really try.

He's given up for a while on trying to be someone else, he'll admit it. He's been bad. But he can be better if she lets him. 

Or maybe... maybe it really is too late for him. 

He thought he might be able to grow up, help Simo out with their little brothers, but maybe this will be it. He'd been looking forward to his thirteenth birthday, too! Officially becoming a teenager, like that would signify some big, palpable change in his life. It would, though—he never thought he'd make it this far, and apparently, it's not normal for boys his age to think that way.

He's lived a life quite unfit for someone his age. At least, that's what Simo tells him when he wakes up screaming from nightmares about the things his parents have done.

The things they've made him do.

He squeezes his eyes shut as pain erupts in a vicious, fiery knot over his heart. It spreads in blistering tendrils from his chest to every single one of his limbs, until he feels like he's dying. And he swears he is, that he's being engulfed by flames, maybe the flames of Hell. Maybe he's finally going there.

He deserves this.

"Please, Mamma, please stop," the boy sobs, but he knows she won't. She's been wanting to do this since she first laid eyes on him, since he first darkened this house with his presence. The way she looks at him... The things she says to him... He doesn't remember a time that she loved him.

But she is his mother. And her loves her, with that kind of love that will keep begging for recognition and comfort—a kiss to the forehead, a warm hug that lets him bury his face in her soft shoulder—instead of this pain. It's the kind of love Simo has always told him to let go of, because it will never be returned. 

But the little boy doesn't want to give up. He doesn't think he can, even if he wanted to.

She screams as she presses the knife in deeper, right over where his heart is hammering in his chest, flecks of spit landing on his face. "Stop! Stop talking to me! Ragazzo demone, il bambino che non ho mai volute. Satana! Satana! I'm going to show them; I'm going to show everyone. You are not my son."