Dark Saint [Romano Brotherhood, #1]

47 | Nina & Santo

Nina

I wake with a start, heart racing.

Anxiety rockets through me as I blink away the fog in my head, frantically looking for the window to ascertain what time of day it is. Dusk tilts through the curtains, casting sinister shadows across Carlo's room, almost making it seem like a room from another more twisted world. 

More than before, I feel untethered, completely alone. In the chance that Luciano had opted to have me searched, I have nothing on me—not even a phone to communicate with the others. I can only assume they're holding up their end of the plan, as they assume I'm holding up mine.

Roaming this house like a misplaced ghost, it strikes me just how empty it is. I only pass a couple guards; they eye me with open curiosity but make no move to approach me. I wonder what Luciano told them about me. If you see her wandering around, just let her. She's harmless. Couldn't hurt a fly.

Seeing no sign of anyone else, I note that the guards seem subtly lackadaisical. Shifting on their feet; stifling yawns. They must be leaving soon. And sure enough, the next time I pass their stations, they're gone. 

So Luciano and Antonio don't even think that the brothers will be retaliating? 

I scoff, ripping into a few granola bars I find in the pantry. The crinkling wrapper might as well be a bomb going off in this abysmally quiet kitchen. They really thought they could fuck with us and we wouldn't fuck with them back? That confidence irks me. They certainly have no idea what they're in for. 

To be fair, neither do I. I'm still figuring that part out. 

I spend the next half hour roaming the main level. If Luciano were to check his cameras, he'd hopefully see a sad, lonely girl trudging through her childhood home, lost in memories. Really, I'm weighing the pros and cons of just going and trying the basement door. But if there's no sign of Luciano and Antonio here, chances are they're down there. 

Think. I need to think. 

The hallway I'm passing through suddenly feels sickeningly familiar. Reaching the end of it, nausea crawls up my throat and my limbs feel like jelly. This room. I fumble with the door, nearly falling inside. The walls are the same color, is the first thing I notice. That burnt orange color, such an odd choice against the rest of the house's monochrome theme. 

It's almost like I expect the floors to still be stained with her blood, the way fear presses in on me as I look around frantically. Like I expect to see that littler version of myself cowering in the corner, trying not to listen to her mother die. 

Too much. There's only so much I can take. 

Walking back into the kitchen on legs that feel numb, I stutter to a stop at the sight of Luciano leaning against the countertop. Casually slicing an apple. Blood smears the front of his shirt. 

I know whose blood that is.

Of course the twisted fuck would want to get in on the torture, too. 

His face goes cold when he sees me, and I can immediately tell now is not a good time for me to be in his presence.

"What's wrong with you?" he sneers.

Unfeelingly, I lift my fingers to my face. My cheeks are wet. Trembles roll through me, and like I've opened the floodgates, all I can suddenly think is I miss my mother. I miss her so much. I wish she was here. And I'm not sure who she'd be—what kind of humor she had, how she'd speak to me, or what her hugs felt like. What I miss is an idea, a smoky memory that never fully took shape.