Can you damage someone beyond repair?
Luca plays his role as the loyal underboss. Violent, lethal, flawless. The lapdog, the starboy.
On the surface, he maintains his facade of smirks and casual charm, but beneath the mask, thereʼs a profound dark...
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16 years old
THE CHILL OF THE WET pavement seeps through the soles of my shoes. I glance at my little brother, his small frame dwarfed by his oversized raincoat. He forgot his umbrella, and though his school is just a few blocks from our apartment, we don’t have time to run back for it without making us both late.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” I ask him.
He shakes his head. “They’ll only allow parents.”
I chew the inside of my cheek. I hate that I can’t walk him in. “Just say dad’s sick, if they ask, alright?”
The raindrops dot his cheeks like tears. He gives me a small nod. “Yep.”
My heart clenches.
“Archie,” I call out. He turns to face me, and I hold out my umbrella towards him. “Here, take this. I’ll be fine without it.”
He blinks, hesitating.
“C’mon!” I groan, trying to sound like he’s only inconveniencing me more by not taking it. “I’m going to be late. Just take it.”
My little brother’s face breaks into a wide grin, and he takes the umbrella. “I’ll see you after school?”
I nod. “Sure. And don’t forget to eat all your lunch.”
I made him smoked chicken sandwiches this morning, and I even took off the crust and cut them into triangles. His favorite.
I watch him cross the street and slip through the gates of his school.
The subway ride into Manhattan is long and quiet. By the time I step out of the subway and into the rain again, the chill has seeped into my bones. A car splashes through a puddle near the sidewalk, and the icy water sprays up my legs, soaking the bottom of my already drenched skirt. I suck in a breath and push forward.
Rain beats down on me relentlessly as I run towards St Mary’s. My clothes cling to me like they’re painted on, wet and uncomfortable. My hair is really long—almost at my hip, and I’m almost regretting not cutting it, because it’s heavy with water and plastered to my scalp.
Finally past the school gates, I dash inside.
I joined late—two weeks into the semester— on a scholarship, which makes it even worse.
St Mary’s Prep is like a different planet. The girls walk around in perfectly pressed uniforms, the navy pleated skirts and white blouses tailored to fit them. Michael Kors shoes, Hermès bags.
My Mary Janes squeak against the polished floors as I make a beeline for the nearest bathroom, avoiding eye contact with anyone looking my way.
Pushing open the bathroom door, I stumble inside, relief flooding through me at the sight of the hand blower mounted on the wall. I take off my drenched sweater and place my icy, wet hands under the blower and almost sigh a little as the stream of warm air hits me.
