Dark Saint [Romano Brotherhood, #1]

52 | Santo & Nina

Santo

Not once in my life have I ever questioned if I have the strength to go on. 

I remember one particular winter when we were kids—Nico was barely five years old, just beginning to grasp the fact that we had no parents. We had nowhere to go. Every day was a new battle, each night that we survived to see a miracle. Chicago winters are brutal, but this one was particularly miserable. 

We hadn't eaten in what felt like weeks, all of us half dead from the cold. I remember pulling Simo aside so our younger brothers wouldn't hear as I told him that I didn't think we were all going to make it.

"We should leave them somewhere," I'd suggested, feeling like my throat was closing up with the words alone but knowing it was what had to be done. "The fire station might be our best bet. Shit, we could do a random house, one that looks nice. That would have the money to take them in. We could find one with a nice big playground or pool in the backyard. Something they'd enjoy."

It would be devastating, losing my brothers, but I knew I'd go on. Knowing they'd be safe, warm, and cared for was all I needed. Simo and I were old enough that nobody would want us. We'd seen and endured enough that we weren't quite right in the head, wouldn't take well to being raised by strangers. We had to let our brothers go so they'd be safe. 

But Simo had steadfastly refused. "I'll find a way," was all he'd said. 

Two weeks later, we had a roof over our heads. We even had money, enough that the hunger pangs went away. It wasn't glamorous, but it was more than enough. Simo never told me how he did it, but it didn't matter. What mattered was that he'd found a way. 

I'm not sure I can find a way out of this now. 

My body has always been good at enduring the things I put it through, my mind even better at following suit. But both my body and mind are untethered now. Some dark fog is creeping up on me and slowly unwinding the strings of my consciousness. I can literally feel it, a foreign pull on my brain, parts of it unraveling and falling to the ground right before me. 

The only thing that slightly fetters me to my sanity is the rise and fall of Nina's chest. Still breathing. Still alive and still mine. Focusing on that brings me back to earth—I'm just not sure for how long. 

The moment that gunshot sounded with the guard on top of her, his hand on the firearm, replays through my mind until I swear I'm about to be sick. Those few moments of not knowing who sustained the bullet, while I was stuck trying to drag my injured body across the floor to get to her, stretched for a lifetime. I'll remember them forever. At the very least, they took seven years off my fucking life.

"Shit." Her voice echoes flatly as she takes a look around us. "We're out of time, aren't we?"

I can't do anything but nod. There's just no way nobody has spotted a fucking Romano helicopter hovering in the front lawn of the Genovese residence. I try to focus on anything but the feeling of my energy seeping steadily from me through the hole in my thigh, but I'm practically on empty. 

"Santo."

Nina looks meaningfully at the front door, then back at her father's body. Understanding zips through me, and despite everything, I smirk at her. 

"You're fucked up, baby."

"I can do it. You're—"

"Like fuck."

"I can do it."

"I know you can. But I don't want you to have to." 

She tries to give me a smile, but the hollow quality of her voice counteracts it. "Fine. You like knives more than I do, anyway."