Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“I didn’t want to talk about it. I hate talking about my little brother. It’s not something we like to remember. Those were dark days, flower.”
I take a step toward him. “You said he was dead. What happened? I mean, what really happened?”
He takes a deep breath and tilts his head back, staring up toward the ceiling like he’s calling out to heaven, calling out for his angel brother.
“Your family captured him.” He closes his eyes and doesn’t look at me. “Nobody else survived the attack and we don’t know the details of how it happened, but they hit hard and fast and dragged my little brother off. Your family took him to an undisclosed location, we think it was somewhere in Harlem, and your family hurt him. It was your family, Kacia, not the Calimeris, not the Russians, not one of the other crime lords, but your people.” He turns his head and opens his eyes, his expression darkening. “Your brothers.”
My mouth falls open. “How? That can’t be true. My brothers—” I stop myself. What do I know about my brothers? They were hard boys and harder men, short-tempered and controlling and overly macho like most Greeks, but that’s about everything I can remember. They had their own existence and I stayed as far from them as possible. What do I really know about my older brothers? They teased me mercilessly, abused me to the point of hating myself, and acted like they owned the world.
Could they have killed someone and done it brutally?
Yes, of course, and of course they did.
“Your brothers were mafia men, flower. I know it’s hard to think of them that way since you probably remember them as boys, but they grew up into men, violent and vicious men. There’s a reason the Russians killed your father and your brothers. They had to be taken out or else they would’ve kept the association going. They were clever and strong, I’ll give them that, maybe too clever and too strong.”
“How did this happen? Why did they do it?”
“I don’t know why. I think it was to prove themselves, or maybe get revenge for one of the others killings, but it doesn’t matter. They took Cab and they tortured him. They called in the Butcher of Rhodes to do the dirty work, and my brother, my little brother, my Cab, my smiling and happy and too fucking innocent little brother, he came back to us in pieces.” He stops and closes his eyes again like he’s remembering, voice choked with emotion. “A finger first. Teeth next. His ears, his tongue. A hand, a foot. Finally, his head. There was no demand. There was no ransom. We never had a chance to get him back even though we tore the city to pieces searching. They killed him slowly, painfully, and they did it to send a message. Your Perico was an expect at keeping people alive for a very long time as he carved them up, and I’ll never forget the expression locked onto my brother’s dead face. It was pure terror. It was pure pain.” He looks at me, his face drained of all emotion. “Perico did that. So no, I won’t ever be sorry. He took Cab from me. He made Cab’s last moments alive a living hell. I can’t be sorry I killed a man like that.”
My knees go weak. I have to sit on the edge of the bed. I lean forward, head in my hands, and try to process what I’m hearing. Could Perico really do something so despicable? Could he really slice up Luca’s younger brother, Cab, into little pieces and send him back in boxes? Could my brothers, Atticus and Karanos, have been part of it?
The only answer is yes.
My guts rebel at the thought. I feel sick. The way I killed that Russian back in LA was brutal and horrible, but cutting someone into bits and pieces while they scream and cry and beg is so much worse. How could a human do something like that to someone else and still retain a shred of decency? I don’t know how I can square the Perico I knew, the kind and gentle Perico that made my life in Greece somewhat manageable, with this monster.
I want to call Luca a liar, but I know he’s not.
Deep down, I’ve always known.
This is what my family was. This is how they took control of the petty, squabbling crime lords. My father was brutal and violent and the men he kept around him were devils and demons and killers and freaks. My brothers worshiped my father, and I have no doubt they turned into killers themselves, equally ruthless, equally heartless.
I ran to America, got an education, tried to start my life, and meanwhile my brothers and my family twisted into a nightmare.