Dark Saint [Romano Brotherhood, #1]

42 | Santo

"Why did Mamma do that?" I sniffle, watching through teary eyes as my brother grips my wrist lightly, guiding it under the cool water of the faucet.

Mo doesn't look at me. He's all tense, and I hope he's not mad at me. "She didn't mean to, Santo. It was an accident."

I wince, trying not to cry any more at the lingering sting of my palm. I've already cried far more than what Papa says is acceptable for a Son of Serpentine. I'm not one yet, but he says I will be soon. He says he knows I'll do a good job. 

The other day, I told Mo I was excited for my initiation and he got angry with me. But I can't help it. I think this is the right thing for me. I just have a feeling—and it's not because of what Papa says. I don't care that I'm six, I still know stuff, and I know this. 

My hand is bright red, and that makes me nervous. This time, I don't think this injury will go away in a couple days. "But she held it there. She didn't let go and I was screaming—"

"Mamma is sick. She doesn't mean to hurt you."

"She's sick?" I gasp. "What does she have?"

Mo doesn't answer me for a long time. "I don't know."

"Is it contagious?" I grimace, then a new thought occurs. "Will she die? Is it—"

"No," he rolls his eyes. "And don't ask so many questions. It's annoying."

"But who else is gonna answer my questions, Mo?"

"I told you not to call me that," he rolls his eyes again, and I crack a small smile. He flicks some of the water into my face, and I laugh.

Massimo is my person. He's the only one who really talks to me, who looks out for me, and I'm the only one who does the same for him. Even though I'm younger, and even though he says he's supposed to do all the protecting. I'd do anything for him. I'd protect him from anyone or anything and he better know that. 

My laughter fades as I look at my hand and the angry red welt. There are more and more things lately that even my brother can't control, questions he can't answer. I want to know why we're not allowed to talk to Papa when he gets home from work and why Mo can't get a cat like he's wanted for years.

I want to know why Mamma held my hand to the stovetop today when I told her I loved her.

"You're like my Papa," I say, and I realize after a few seconds that I've said the wrong thing. My brother is looking at me funny. He looks sad and something else.

"We have a Papa," he eventually says. "And besides, I'm two years older than you. That's impossible."

"But he's mean to you." I frown. Fathers aren't supposed to be mean. "And anyway, you're the one who helps me when Mamma hurts m—"

"I'm not your father." He sounds angry, and I recoil, not wanting to make him upset. "I'm not your father, but I will take care of you," he continues, softer now. "I promise."

+

My brother isn't here—he's not here and she's hurting me.

I know it's going to make him really sad. Last time she hurt me when he wasn't here, he cried. I told him it wasn't his fault, but he felt really bad. He told me that whenever she hurts me, she hurts him too.

I think my brother is really sad all the time, and I hope it's not because of me.

I don't know what I did wrong now. I heard her crying in the kitchen so I came in because I wanted to make sure she was okay. She said she wanted a glass of water. But when I handed it to her, she grabbed my arm and started twisting it back. She said she wanted to see how far it would go. She said I wasn't her son.