Dark Saint [Romano Brotherhood, #1]

43 | Santo

I wake to an acute kind of pain, dazed from memories that masquerade as nightmares.

For what might be minutes, or maybe hours, I let it wash over me—gradually bringing me to a state of consciousness where I am able to comprehend my surroundings.

The room is dimly lit with a singular bulb that hangs from the ceiling, casting everything in a rusty orange glow. I take stock of my injuries, observing the blood that trickles down from the shackles cutting into my wrists. I'm hanging from the wall like a fucking martyr, my aching arms stretched above my head. The blood runs down the length of my arms and torso, painting me in crimson stripes.

I breathe, and the pain rushes forward in waves, some more muted than others, but overcast by a dark, murky cloud that tinges everything in uncertainty, lethargy, and dizziness. 

The feeling is familiar. I've been drugged, likely to keep me complacent. An ocean of pain and uncertainty rises—not pertaining to my physical wounds, but to that one pervading fact, and I breathe again as I let the thought resurface... 

My father is alive.

I watched him die, yet he is alive.

As if I've summoned him, the door creaks open and he's there, floating soundlessly closer like a vindictive ghost, and I'm still not fully convinced that I'm not trapped in some nightmare.

"You're awake," he smiles.

"And you're alive. How?" I grit out the words, slow and slurred on my tongue.

He only smiles. Always just smiling. He always fucking smiled like nothing ever affected him, like he knew something everyone else didn't. Sudden fury pulses through me, so strong that I jerk against my restraints without meaning to, causing them to dig further into my skin and send new pain and blood coursing down my body.

Everything about him is like nails on a chalkboard. Everything. Even just the easy movement of his body, the health that is still apparent in his physique—it's enough to blind me with rage. The turmoil inside me is a thousand-edged sword, cutting into me with no relief. 

Because the last time I saw him like this, alive, my mother was too. And suddenly I become convinced that she's here, that she's going to walk through that door any second. And I'd rather face my father a thousand times than face her once, please, God, no, she can't be alive. She can't.

I don't realize how much I'm shaking until my chains start rattling. The rage is suddenly gone; for the first time, it's not there for me to grasp ahold of. 

My father sighs through his smile, as if he's having difficulty maintaining his mask. "Why are all my sons more incompetent than they were when they were children? Why? The last time I saw you, you had just killed a man for simply existing. Where is that killer right now?"

Something drips onto my torso. My body is in a constant state of pain; if he were carving into me, it would only blend in with that which already exists. I jerk back, crying out at the pain it causes, convinced he's cutting into me again. I'm not sure I have any blood left to bleed. Blinking my vision back, I realize he hasn't moved. He's just staring at me blankly. 

And I'm apparently going fucking insane. 

Looking down at myself, seeing no new blood, I register the wetness of my face. Tears. That's what splashed down my body. With the realization, my chest suddenly feels like it's in the process of caving in. 

There's the sound of a door closing and I realize I'm alone again, left with only my wounds and the tears that, like my father, have seemed to make a reappearance from my childhood.