Luca Vitiello by Cora Reilly

CHAPTER 1

LUCA, 9 YEARS OLD

Matteo and I sat at the dining table, our eyes trained on the door, waiting for Mother. The bell for dinner had rung a long time ago.

Our nanny Marianna stood against the wall, glancing toward the clock on the sideboard, then back to us. Father rarely ate with us, but Mother always did—at least dinner, even when she could hardly stand. She was always on time in case Father decided to show up.

Where was she?

Was she sick?

Yesterday she’d looked white, except for the blue and yellow blotches on her face and arms where Father had disciplined her. She often did things wrong. It was difficult not to do wrong with Father. A thing that was okay yesterday could be wrong today. Matteo and I often confused one with the other and got punished as well.

Matteo took his knife and stuck it into the bowl with mashed potato that had stopped steaming before slipping the mash-covered blade into his mouth.

Marianna clucked her tongue. “One day you’ll cut yourself.”

Matteo shoved the knife back into the mash and licked it off again, his chin jutting out stubbornly. “I won’t.”

I pushed my chair back and stood. It wasn’t permitted to get up before dinner was eaten, but Father wasn’t home, so I was the master of the house because Matteo was two years younger than me.

I walked around the table. Marianna made a step in my direction. “Luca, you shouldn’t…” She trailed off as she looked at my face.

I looked like Father. That’s why she was more scared of me than Matteo. That, and because I was going to be Capo. Soon, I’d be the one to punish everyone for doing wrong things.

She didn’t follow me when I walked through the foyer and up the stairs. “Mother? Dinner’s ready.”

No answer. I stepped onto the landing, then approached Mother’s bedroom. The door was ajar. The last time that had happened, I’d found her wailing on her bed, but it was quiet inside. I pushed the door open, swallowing. It was too quiet. Light spilled out of the open bathroom.

Downstairs, I heard Father’s voice. He had arrived home from work. He was probably angry that I wasn’t sitting at the dining room table. I should have gone downstairs and apologized, but my feet carried me toward the light source.

Our bathrooms were white Carrara marble but, for some reason, a pink glow reflected in the room. I stepped into the doorframe and froze. The floor was covered with blood. I’d seen it often enough to recognize it, and its smell, a hint of copper and something sweet, was even sweeter today as it mixed with Mother’s perfume.

My eyes followed the river of blood, then the dried waterfall of red staining the white tub up to a limp arm. The white flesh was parted, giving way to dark red below.

The arm belonged to Mother. It had to be her, even if she looked alien. Masklike and stiff, her eyes were dull brown. They were staring at me, sad and lonely.

I moved a few steps closer. “Mother?” Another step. “Mom?”

She didn’t react. She was dead. Dead. My eyes registered the knife on the floor. It was one of Matteo’s, a black Karambit knife. She didn’t have her own weapons.

She had cut herself. It was her blood. I looked down at my feet. My socks were soaked with the red liquid. I stumbled away and slipped, falling back, crying out. My butt hit the floor hard and my clothes soaked up her blood, sticking to my skin.

I scrambled to my feet and stormed outside, my mouth open wide, my head throbbing, my eyes stinging. I collided with something. Looking up, I found Father’s furious face glaring down at me. He hit me hard across the face. “Stop screaming!”

My lips snapped shut. I’d screamed? I blinked up at my father but he was blurry. He gripped me by the collar, shaking me. “Are you crying?”

I wasn’t sure. I knew crying wasn’t allowed. I never cried, not even when Father hurt me. He hit me even harder. “Speak up.”

“Mother’s dead,” I croaked.

Father frowned, taking in the blood on my clothes. He moved past me toward the bedroom. “Come,” he ordered. I noticed his two bodyguards in the hallway with us. They watched me with a look in their eyes I didn’t understand.

I didn’t move.

“Come, Luca,” Father hissed.

“Please,” I said. Another forbidden thing: begging. “I don’t want to see her again.”

Father’s face twisted with rage, and I braced myself. He was upon me and gripped my arm. “Never again. You won’t ever say that word again. And no tears, not another disgusting tear, or I’ll burn out your left eye. You can still be a Made Man with one eye.”

I gave a quick nod and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. I didn’t fight when Father wrenched me back into the bathroom and I didn’t cry again, only stared at the body in the tub. Only a body. Slowly, the roar in my chest quieted. It was only a body.

“Pathetic,” Father muttered. “Pathetic whore.”

My brows drew together. The women Father met when he wasn’t home were whores, but Mother wasn’t. She was his wife. Whores took care of Father so he didn’t hurt Mother as badly. That’s what she explained to me. But it didn’t work.

“One!” Father bellowed.

One of the bodyguards entered. His name wasn’t One, but Father didn’t bother learning the names of low soldiers and gave them numbers instead.

One stood close behind me, and when Father inspected Mother more closely with a cruel smile, he squeezed my shoulder. I peered up at him, wondering why he was doing it, what it meant, but his gaze was focused on Father, not me. “Get someone to clean up this mess and call for Bardoni. He needs to find me a new wife.”

My brain stumbled over what he’d said. “New wife?”

Father narrowed his gray eyes. Gray like mine. “Change clothes and act like a goddamn man, not a boy.” He paused. “And get Matteo. He needs to see what kind of cowardly whore his mother was.”

“No,” I said.

Father stared at me. “What did you say?”

“No,” I repeated in a small voice. Matteo loved our Mother. It would hurt him.

Father glanced at the hand still on my shoulder, then up at his bodyguard. “One, beat some sense into him.”

One pulled his hand away and, with a short glance at my face, he began beating me. I fell to my knees, back to crouching in Mother’s blood. I barely felt the hits, only stared at the red on the white marble.

“Stop,” Father ordered, and the blows did stop. I looked back up at him, my head ringing, my back and stomach burning. He looked into my eyes for a long time, and I stared back. No. No. No. I wouldn’t get Matteo. I wouldn’t whether One kept beating me or not. I was used to pain.

His mouth thinned. “Two!” Bodyguard Two came in. “Get Matteo. Luca will only get blood on the expensive Persian rugs.”

I almost smiled because I had won. I tried to jump to my feet to stop Two, but One gripped my arm hard. I fought and almost freed myself, but then Matteo appeared in the doorway and I went slack.

Matteo’s brown eyes became huge when he saw our mother and the blood, then his knife next to the tub. Father motioned at Mother. “Your mother abandoned you. She killed herself.”

Matteo only looked.

“Get your knife,” Father ordered.

Matteo stumbled inside, and One’s grip on my arm tightened. Father glanced at me, then back at my brother, who picked up the knife with shaking hands.

I hated Father. I hated him so much.

And I hated Mother for doing this, for leaving us with him.

“Now clean up, the both of you.”

Matteo stood stock-still, staring at his bloody knife. I gripped his arm and pulled him out, stumbling after me. I led him into my bedroom, then into the bathroom. He still looked at his knife. I ripped it from his hand and held it under the faucet, cleaning it with hot water to get rid of the dried blood. My eyes prickled, but I swallowed.

No tears. Not ever again.

“Why did she use my knife?” Matteo asked quietly.

I turned off the water and dried it with a towel, then held it out to him. After a moment, he shook his head, backing away until he bumped against the wall, before he sank down on his butt. “Why?” he muttered, eyes filling with tears.

“Don’t cry,” I hissed, quickly closing the bathroom door in case Father came into my bedroom.

Matteo jutted his chin out, narrowing his eyes even as he began bawling. I tensed and gripped a clean towel before I knelt in front of my brother. “Stop crying, Matteo. Stop it,” I said quietly. I shoved the towel into his face. “Dry your face. Father will punish you.”

“I don’t care,” Matteo choked out. “I don’t care what he does.” His words were proven wrong by the shaky note of terror in his voice.

I glanced at the door, worried I’d heard footsteps. It was silent unless Father was spying on us, but he was probably busy taking care of Mother’s body. Maybe he’d tell his Consigliere Bardoni to drop her in the Hudson River. I shuddered.

“Take the towel,” I ordered.

Matteo finally did and wiped it roughly over his red eyes. I held the knife out to him. He eyed it critically. “Take it.”

He pressed his lips together.

“Matteo, you have to take it.” Father wouldn’t allow him to get rid of it. My little brother finally reached for the knife and curled his fingers around the handle.

“It’s only a knife,” I said, but I, too, could only see the blood it had been covered with.

He nodded and pushed it into his pocket. We stared at each other. “Now we’re alone.”

“You have me,” I said.

A knock sounded and I quickly pulled Matteo to his feet. The door swung open and Marianna stepped inside. Her eyes crinkled as she looked at us. Her brown hair, which she usually wore in a bun, was all over the place as if she’d ripped the hairnet out of it. “The Master sent me to see if you were getting ready. Soon his Consigliere will be here.” Her voice held a strange note I didn’t recognize, and her lips trembled as her eyes darted between Matteo and me.

I nodded. She came closer and touched my shoulder. “I’m so sorry.” I stepped back, away from the touch. I glared, because it made not crying easier.

“I’m not,” I muttered. “She was weak.”

Marianna took a step back, glancing between Matteo and me, her expression falling. “Hurry,” she said before she left.

Matteo slipped his hand in mine. “I’ll miss her.”

I looked down at my feet, at my blood-covered socks, not saying anything because it would have been weak to do so. I wasn’t allowed to be weak. Not ever.

Cesare landed a hard hit in my stomach. Gasping, I dropped to my knees. Marianna put down her knitting needles with a sharp intake of breath. Before he could land a hit on my head, I rolled away and pushed to my feet, then raised my balled fists.

Cesare nodded. “Don’t get distracted again.”

I gritted my teeth and attacked, feigning an upper cut, then smashed my fist into his side. He grunted then jumped back. Cesare had been giving me fighting lessons since I was three years old.

Cesare stepped back from me. “You’ll be unbeatable when you’re older.”

I wanted to be unbeatable now so I could stop Father from hurting us. I was already much taller and stronger than the other kids in school, but I needed to be even stronger. I began to pull off my gloves.

Cesare turned to Matteo, who sat on the edge of the boxing ring, his legs pulled up to his chest, a deep frown on his forehead. “It’s your turn.”

My brother didn’t react, staring off into space. I threw my boxing glove at him. He gasped, rubbing the side of his head, messing up his brown hair, then scowled. “Your turn,” I said.

He got to his feet, but I could tell that he was in a sour mood. I knew why, but I really hoped he would keep it to himself.

“Why aren’t we at Mom’s funeral?”

Marianna was heading our way. I threw my second glove at him. “Shut up.”

He stomped his foot. “No!” He jumped off the boxing ring and stalked toward the door of the gym. What was he doing?

“Matteo!” I shouted, chasing after him.

“I want to say goodbye to her! It’s not fair that she’s alone.”

No, no, no! Why did he have to say something like that when others were around? I didn’t look back at Cesare and Marianna, but I knew they’d heard every word.

I grabbed Matteo’s arm shortly before the exit and jerked him back. He tried to shake me off, but I was stronger than him. He glared up at me with teary eyes. “Stop crying,” I whispered harshly.

“Don’t you want to say goodbye?” he rasped.

My chest tightened. “She didn’t say goodbye to us either.” I released Matteo, and he began crying again.

Marianna put her hand on his shoulder but not on mine. She’d learned. Every time she’d tried to console me in the last few days, I’d shaken her off. “It’s okay to be sad.”

“No, it’s not,” I said firmly. Didn’t she understand? If Father found out that Matteo was crying after our mother, especially when Cesare was around, he’d punish him. Maybe he’d burn his eye out like he’d threatened to do to me. I couldn’t let that happen. I glanced to Cesare who stood a few steps back, unwrapping his tape from his wrist.

“Our mother was a sinner. Suicide is sin. She doesn’t deserve our sadness,” I repeated what the pastor had told me when I’d visited church with Father. I didn’t understand it. Killing was a sin too, but the pastor never said anything to Father about that.

Marianna shook her head and touched my shoulder with sad eyes. Why did she have to do it? “She shouldn’t have left you boys alone.”

“She was never really there for us before, either,” I said firmly, balling my emotions inside of me.

Marianna nodded. “I know, I know. Your mother…”

“…was weak,” I hissed, drawing back from her touch. I didn’t want to talk about her. I just wanted to forget she’d ever existed, and I wanted Matteo to stop looking at the stupid knife as if it would kill him.

“Don’t,” Marianna whispered. “Don’t become like your father, Luca.”

That’s what Grandma Marcella had said before she’d died.

Grandma looked thin and small. Her skin appeared too big for her body, as if she’d borrowed it from a person twice her size.

She smiled in a way no one ever smiled at me and stretched out her old hand. I took it. Her skin felt like paper, dry and cold.

“Don’t leave,” I demanded. Father said she would die soon. That’s why he’d sent me into her room, to understand death but I already did.

Grandma squeezed my hand lightly. “I’ll watch over you from heaven.”

I shook my head. “You can’t protect us when you’re up there.”

Her brown eyes were kind. “Soon you won’t need protection anymore.”

“I’ll rule over everyone,” I whispered. “Then I’ll kill Father so he can’t hurt Matteo and Mother anymore.”

Grandma touched my cheek. “Your father killed his father so he could become Capo.”

My eyes widened. “You hate him for it?”

“No,” she said. “Your Grandfather was a cruel man. I couldn’t protect Salvatore from him.” Her voice got raspier and very quiet so I had to lean close to hear her. “That’s why I tried to protect you from your father but I failed again.”

Her eyelids fluttered and she released my hand but I clung to it. “Don’t become like your grandfather and father, Luca.”

She closed her eyes.

“Grandma?”

I scowled, then glanced back at Cesare who was watching with his arms crossed. Had he heard what Marianna had said? Father would be angry with her. Very angry.

I turned on my heel and walked toward him, stopping right in front of him and narrowing my eyes. “You didn’t hear anything.”

Cesare’s eyebrows rose. Did he think I was kidding?

I didn’t have much I could do. Father held all the power. “You won’t tell anyone anything, or I’ll tell my father that you talked shit about him. I’m his heir. He’ll believe me.”

Cesare dropped his arms. “You don’t have to threaten me, Luca. I’m on your side.”

With that, he turned on his heel and went into the locker room. Father always said we were surrounded by enemies. How was I supposed to know whom I could trust?

LUCA, 11 YEARS OLD

Screams tore through my nightmare, through the images of red rivulets on white marble. I sat up, disoriented, listening to shouting and gunfire. What was happening?

Light flared up in the hallway, probably the motion sensors. I rolled over to the edge of my bed when the door opened. A tall man I’d never seen before stood in the doorway, his gun trained on my head.

I froze.

He was going to kill me. I could see it in his expression. I stared into his eyes, wanting to die with my head held high like a real man. A small shadow dashed forward behind the man and, with a battle cry, Matteo jumped on his back. The gun fired and I jerked as hot pain sliced through my middle.

The bullet went a lot lower than it was supposed to. He would have killed me if it hadn’t been for Matteo. Tears shot into my eyes, but I stumbled out of the bed and wrenched my gun out of the nightstand. The man lifted the barrel at Matteo. I raised my gun, pointed it at his head the way Cesare and One had taught me, then pulled the trigger. Blood splattered everywhere, even over Matteo’s shock-widened face. For a moment, everything seemed to stand still—even my heartbeat—and then everything sped up.

The man tumbled forward and would have taken my brother with him had he not jumped back in the last moment, still looking stunned. He blinked at me, then peered down at the body. Slowly, he dragged his gaze back up, lingering on my belly. “You’re bleeding.”

I clutched the wound in my side, shaking from the force of the pain. My hand with the gun shook, but I didn’t drop it. Shots and screams still rang out downstairs. I nodded toward my closet. “Hide in there.”

Matteo frowned.

“Do it,” I said sharply.

“No.”

I staggered toward him, almost passing out from the sharp pain in my body. I gripped Matteo by the cuff of his pajama and pulled him toward the closet. He struggled, but I shoved him inside and turned the lock.

Matteo hammered against the door from inside. “Let me out!”

Trembling with anxiety and pain, I crept downstairs, toward the living room where the sounds were coming from. When I stepped in, I saw Father crouched behind a sofa in a shooting match with two other men. Both had their backs turned to me. Father’s eyes flitted to me, and for a moment, I considered not doing anything. I hated him, hated how he hurt Matteo and me, and even his new wife Nina.

Still, I raised my hand and shot one of the men. Father took care of the other. The man fell to the floor clutching his shoulder. Father kicked the gun away then shot him in both feet. Somewhere in the house I heard more gunshots, then heavy steps. One stumbled inside, bleeding from a wound in his head.

Father frowned. “Did you kill everyone?”

One nodded. “Yes. They got Two.”

“They shouldn’t have come as far as they did,” Father muttered. Without warning, he aimed his gun at One and pulled the trigger. I cried out in surprise as the man fell to the floor beside me. I’d known him all my life.

My legs gave away, my wound throbbing. Father regarded me as he lifted his phone and spoke into it. “Send for the Doc, and come over with Durant. No one else until I know who the rats are.”

Father stalked toward me and pulled me roughly to my feet. Holding me upright, he shoved my hand away from my bleeding wound. He prodded at it, and my vision turned black as I jerked in agony. Father shook me. “Get a grip on yourself. Don’t die on me.”

My eyes peeled open. Father shook his head then released me, and I sank back down to the ground. I braced myself on my hands, wheezing.

Father moved out of the room, leaving me alone with the attacker who was moaning as he tried to crawl away. When Father returned, he carried rope. He tied up the man then pulled out his knife and touched it to the man’s forearm. He screamed when Father began to cut his skin off his flesh. It’s like peeling an apple. That’s what Father always said but an apple didn’t screech and beg.

Cradling my bleeding stomach, I watched even as bile crawled up my throat. Father kept glancing my way. I knew he’d punish me if I looked away. The screams rang in my ears, and I shivered. My arms gave way and my cheek collided with the hard floor. The static in my ears soon drowned out the screaming, and then all was black.

The Underbosses and Captains waited in the living room of our mansion. Father stood in the middle and beckoned me forward. Every eye in the room followed me as I headed toward him. I held my head high, trying to appear taller. I was tall for my age, but the men around me still towered over me. They looked at me like I was something they had never seen before.

I stopped right in front of my father. “The youngest initiate the Famiglia has ever seen,” he announced, his voice booming in the room. “Eleven years and already so much stronger and crueler than any father could wish for.”

Pride swelled in my chest. Father had never sounded proud of me, never shown the slightest hint that I or Matteo were more than a burden. I straightened my shoulders, trying to appear like a man in my black suit and wingtip shoes.

“Our enemies will whisper your name in fear, my son. My blood. My heir.”

He withdrew a knife and I held out my hand, knowing what was to come. I didn’t flinch when Father cut my palm. He’d cut me many times before to make me strong for this day. Every time I’d flinched, he’d cut me again and dripped lemon juice or salt into my wound until I hid the pain.

“Born in Blood, Sworn in Blood. I enter alive and I leave dead,” I said firmly.

“You are a Made Man of the Famiglia, Luca. You will kill and maim in my name. You will break and burn.”

A man was dragged into the room. I didn’t know him or what he had done. He was covered in bruises and blood. His swollen eyes met mine and they begged me. No one had ever looked at me like that, like I held all the power.

Father gave a nod and held the knife out to me, the same knife my mother had killed herself with. I took it from him then stepped up to the man. He struggled against the hold of Father’s new bodyguards, but they didn’t release him. My fingers tightened around the handle. Everyone was watching me, waiting for a flicker of weakness, but I was my father’s son and I would be Capo one day. I quickly slashed my hand sideways, drawing the knife along his throat. The cut was messy and blood spurted out, splattering my shoes and shirt. I took a step back as the man’s eyes widened. He was dropped on the floor, horrified eyes staring up at me as he convulsed and choked.

I watched as the life drained out of him.

Two days later, the most important words of my life were inked onto my chest, making me a Made Man for life. Nothing would ever be more important than the Famiglia.