Page 18 of Damiano De Luca (The Five Syndicates)
He ignored me, moving the beer glass over the bar counter onto the bartender’s side before turning to face me. “I’ll say this once, and you won’t have a drop of liquor in your system when you’re in bed tonight, your hands are itching to pleasure yourself to the memory of me, and you’re looking for something but yourself to blame.”
Jesus.
Those tourmaline-black eyes never wavered from mine. “Princess isn’t and never has been an insult. I never saw you as someone who needed saving. It’s one thing to be a princess sitting on a throne of glass, but it’s a great deal more to be a princess that shatters glass ceilings while everyone looks the other way. People may overlook you, and maybe you’ve always wanted it that way, but I never did. I always saw you.”
He stood, his eyes never once drifting to the nearby table, where a fight seemed inevitable. “But you know what? You left me, so next time you find yourself reaching out for help and grasping empty air, ask yourself why you pushed me away. Because I sure as Hell don’t know.”
I swallowed. His words hurt. Even worse, they were true. I’d forgotten how it felt to spend time with someone who could see past my barriers. He walked past them like they didn’t exist, and he stirred mayhem within me. We were mayhem. My hands shook as he stepped past me and moved toward the table in the center of the bar.
Lucy sat there with two girls. A confrontational blonde stood in front of her, her arms crossed, a pissed off snarl a permanent facial feature.
“Wait!” I latched a hand onto Damian’s forearm and immediately pulled it back. Damn the way my composure slipped around him.
What could I say to that? I had my reasons for leaving, but he didn’t know them.
You could always tell him.
Could I?
That would open up more pain than I was interested in handling. Goodness, I had always prided myself in my strength, but I felt weak at the moment, embarrassed and haunted by my past.
So, instead of telling him what had happened, I dropped a bomb that should have been bubble wrapped, padded with foam, inked with a giant “FRAGILE” stamp, and delivered with more care. “She’s your sister.”
“What?” Incredulity spread across his face, and he leaned away from me.
I slid my sweater over my shoulders, so I had something to do with my hands that didn’t involve comforting him. “Ariana De Luca is your sister.”
His lips formed the beginnings of a snarl. “I don’t know what stunt you thin—”
“Look at me, Day.” I met his stare head on and tried to show him the truth within my words. “Your father had an affair with a stripper years ago. She worked for him at The Landing Strip but fled when she found out she was pregnant. I’m sure you can ask around to confirm. Her name was Aria Simpson.” I added the last part in case he actually did ask around, but I knew he trusted me. I could see it in his eyes, and it wasn’t lost on me how much yet how little things had changed.
“How do you know this?”
“I’m a—”
“—Vitali. Right.” He shook his head, turned his body away from me, and walked away.
The most valuable part of knowledge was having it when others didn’t. The knowledge I had given up made up far more than a morsel, and one day, when he had time to properly digest his new reality, he would look back and wonder why I had parted with this information.
I hoped, when that day came, he would draw the wrong conclusion.
Deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance.
Oscar Wilde
Seventeen Years Old
Two men look out through the same bars; one sees mud, and the other stars.
No matter how much I loved his poetry, Frederick Langridge and I probably wouldn’t be friends. Langridge was all about looking up, finding the positivity in every situation. Lately, I’d been looking down. Succumbing to pessimism that reached new heights each passing second.
Sitting in this room, day after day, felt like a life sentence. Looking out of the windows, all I saw was mud. Metaphorical mud—a syndicate boss would never boast anything less than perfect, manicured lawns—but still.
Mud.
Ugly, slimy, shit-colored mud.
For the past decade, school had been my refuge. Classes, my reprieve. Books, my daily vacation. Of course, Papà had made the decision for me to skip the remainder of the school year before I had arrived.
