Page 41 of Brox Boar

“I wondered.” His voice stays steady. “I did not question Valentino out loud.”

“That’s not a difference that helps,” I snap.

My pulse crawls up my neck. I move past him, only a few steps. “Start again,” I say. “From the beginning. The story he gave you.”

Rio exhales slowly, a tired sound, as though he dragged this weight for so long he cannot conceive of setting it down.

“He told me our parents left us on a pavement,” he says. “He said we were small, dirty, sick. He discovered us on his way back from some meeting. He said he could have stepped over us, kept walking, let us die there. Instead, he brought us with him.”

My stomach twists.

“He said we owed him,” Rio continues. “Everything. Food, roof over our heads, clothes. He reminded me every time we crossed a line. ‘Remember where I found you, Rio.’ He said if I failed him, he would send us back to that street. He said no one else wanted us before he picked us up.”

“You never stopped to ask if any of it made sense.”

Rio’s jaw shifts.

“You were already six when we moved fully into his world,” he says. “You were small, but not a baby. I’m sure you remember his fists.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.” I bite out.

He moves around the end of the bar, fingers grazing the counter without really touching it. He pulls a bottle down, pauses, thinks better of it, and sets it back.

“He told me versions of that story for years,” he says. “I was eight the first time he described that pavement. Or so he claimed. I do not remember. He painted it so vividly it became a memory.”

“Why did you never confront him?” I demand.

His eyes flick back to mine.

“You say this as though there was room for debate.” Something dark flashes across his face. “You knew him.” He continues quietly. “Anyway. I did that. Once.”

The air shifts. I feel it. I draw closer without meaning to, drawn in.

“What happened?”

He gives me a humorless smile. “Do you think we’d be able to build this entire empire if he was nice to us?”

“Stop dodging,” I growl.

He runs his tongue along his teeth, then places both hands on the bar’s edge, shoulders tight.

“I asked where our birth certificates were,” he says. “I asked why there were no photos of us before his house. I asked him where our parents were. What happened to them?”

My senses focus on every word.

“He took me downstairs,” Rio continues. “In the basement. Told me to take my shirt off,” he looks at me. “You know what happens there.”

My breath comes shorter. I can picture it too clearly, even without having seen it. It happened to me too. Many times.

“He hit me until my shoulders went numb,” Rio says calmly. “Until my spine felt split. He did not stop when I apologized. He stopped when he decided the message landed. Then he kissed the back of my head and reminded me where he found us. He asked if I wanted to return to that pavement. I said no. He said, ‘Good. You remember, then.’”

“You never said anything.”

“What would I have said?” he asks. “If I told you, you would have ended up in the same place. I did not see any benefit to sharing.”

“You made the decision for both of us,” I throw back. “You decided what I could handle.”

He straightens, eyes hardening.