In the Shadows
"I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul."
Pablo Neruda
A human skull rests on a bookshelf in my father's office, tucked between the family Bible and a framed portrait of my parents on their wedding day.
Like most families, mine is steeped in tradition. The skull is a key element in an age-old ritual upheld by the Carbone family.
My family.
Two black holes gape at me in accusation. Eye sockets once full of my ancestor's soul now remain empty. Dead, but coated with the life-force that has run through many of my relatives' veins.
Blood.
Cracks and crevices of the parchment-like surface of the skull are full of the dried substance. Webbing streams of black and crimson drip from the crown and well past the jawbone like a melting candle.
The flick of a lighting flame reminds me I'm not alone in my father's office. Ghastly and glowing, illuminated by the burn of a lighter behind his cupped hand, he meets my eyes. The lighter hits the desk, skidding my way. He hits the cigar, taking two, long pulls. Plumes of smoke circle the ebony of his hair, gray infusing around black.
"Your blood will soak that skull one day, like your brothers' blood, my blood, my father's blood before me, and his father's blood before him. Will you be prepared?"
Will I be prepared? Is anyone ever prepared to take on a life they were involuntarily born into, a life of violent privilege and inevitable death?
"No, father. I won't be prepared."
Carlisle Carbone stares at me, expressionless until I speak once more.
"I'm already prepared, and have been since the day I was born."
"Such conviction my child utters." Carlisle smiles, evil, twisting, grotesque. Smoke erupts from his nostrils. A dragon at rest. "Childish resolution?"
"Loyalty. And honor," I say. "Pride."
My voice still cracks when I speak, but from rapidly fading puberty, not nervousness. Never nervousness. Not me. Never me.
Carlisle takes another drag from the cigar. Words roll off his tongue in smoke-laced waves. "Any fool can claim pride, loyalty, and honor. A real man proves it by example, by tangible evidence of these qualities he claims to possess."
"Anything," I say. "I'll do anything to prove myself, Carlisle. The only thing I need from you is the opportunity."
"Anything?"
I nod.
Carlisle finishes his cigar while I remain still in the leather cushioned chair across from his desk. Patience is a virtue, my mother always says, one that's not naturally instilled within me. Mistakes are made by those quick to temper, those who rush to obtain things that are not yet within their reach. Those are the words my father has proclaimed since I was a child. In his eyes I still am a child. But what I want rests a short distance away from where I sit; an object marred by blood and age.
A short distance away ... so close. I want to take it, take it the way I take everything else I want in life. But force is not an option in this case, a fact that keeps me up late every night. Restless. Jittery. Craving what my brothers already have: our father's faith in his children. To be more than Edward Carbone, youngest son of Carlisle Carbone.
I want to be a king.
Carlisle snuffs out the cigar in a marble ashtray. Keys jingle in his hand. A desk drawer silently slides open. A photograph is tossed on the thick, ancient desk.
I pick the photograph up and study it. A kid around eighteen years-old, not much older than me, stares back from the glossy image.
"Son, what do you see when you look at that photograph?"
Carlisle's voice is even and unassuming, but I know my father; known him my entire life. There's nothing unassuming about the man. Everything is a test. Life itself is a test.
"Teenage male, brown hair, green eyes," I say.
Carlisle sighs, the exasperation encouraging me to study the photograph more carefully. The guy in the photo is skinny, but hasn't always been thin. His clothes hang from his gaunt body, the material drooping in areas where it once strained against muscle. Purple circles dust the sagging skin below his tired eyes. A Rolex gleams from his left wrist.
"Kid's got a drug problem," I murmur. "Meth?"
Carlisle shakes his head. "Not meth, kid. Big H."
Big H: Heroin. Addictive as fuck, not only the drug itself but the utmost happiness it brings as it flies through the bloodstream. I tried it one night at a party, hitting a vein the second the needle sank into my skin. Partygoers melted away. The world melted away.
Somehow I ended up lying on my back in a garbage-filled alleyway counting the stars. They melted from the night sky, dripping and splattering all around me. I floated back inside my bedroom window on a technicolor wave of euphoria. The next morning, I woke up naked and alone with lipstick coating my dick. The memory is almost nostalgic until I remember how my chest was covered in dried vomit and how it was the last night I ever saw my sister alive.
I toss the photo on the desk. "What's this kid got to do with us?"
"That kid is James O'Sullivan. William O'Sullivan's son."
"Mayor O'Sullivan? How fucking ironic." I laugh, the sound bouncing off the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
William O'Sullivan, newly elected, reigns over Chicago with an iron fist. Cracking down on drug cartels is his top priority and he's done it well. Mayors of the past have accepted money under the table, turning a blind eye to the illegal happenings of one of the nation's most drug-addicted cities. As long as the money kept flowing so did the drugs. The only ones who paid the price were those dumb enough to get caught or stupid enough to die by the needle.
Instead of joining me in my laughter, my father stands and strolls over to the wet bar. Brandy splashes into a glass, the amber liquid sloshing up the sides. The moment the liquid touches his lips, the frustration smooths away the pinched expression on his face, but only momentarily.
"I've never met a man I couldn't bribe, or one who isn't so easily scared," Carlisle says, irritably. "A billion dollar industry that I've worked so hard for, going up in smoke."
He wanders over to a large window overlooking the picturesque lawn two stories below. Spring arrived some time ago, but the wind continues to carry a slight wintery chill. The deceptive sun gleams down from above. Fresh grass grows below the warm rays. I imagine my mother is somewhere outside at this very moment, puttering around with a garden spade and a flat of flowers. Mayors and mobsters are probably the last thing on her mind.
"James has been in and out of rehab three times," Carlisle says, his eyes fixated on a figure down below. "William loves that boy. He'd do anything to save his son."
Anything to save his son …
There's a double entendre to his words, a silent message that I easily read. My fingers twitch against the leather-upholstered arms of the chair. Patience, the virtue my mind spouted off earlier today, proves its non-existence once more.
"You want me to clip him, I'll clip him."
My words don't affect him, at least not physically. There's no twitch to his face, no raising of an eyebrow. He simply studies whatever has him so fixated on the lawn below us. Eventually, he returns to his desk, but doesn't sit in his chair. He props against the desk, directly in front of me with his arms crossed over his chest.
"You think it's that easy? Ending a life?" he asks, his voice steely, unconvinced.
I hesitate, wondering if I should tell him how I dream of murdering my way to the top, shedding blood to become the man standing before me.
"Murder is instilled in me," I say. "I crave it. The thought burns inside me, fire running through my blood. Murdering runs in my blood."
"It's one thing to watch a man die, son, but ending a life … that's an entirely different thing."
I remember the sins of my past, the single event that dissolved my father's trust of his youngest son in the expanse of one evening. "You have no faith in me."
Carlisle laughs, the sound fueling irritation inside of me. I grip the leather beneath my fingers and tense my jaw.
"Edward, I have the utmost faith in you. It's your eagerness that worries me. Jasper and Emmett, they're calmer, less excitable. You're a bull in a china shop. I don't want you leaving a bloody trail back to our home."
"I'm smart." I smirk, momentarily forgetting my anger. "And I'm determined. I won't fail, because failure isn't an option for people like me: people born to succeed."
Carlisle smiles, and my heart knows.
I will kill James O'Sullivan. I will kill him and get away with it.
I'm Edward Antonio Carbone, sixteen-year old son of Carlisle Carbone. I'm invisible. Nothing can soften my heart.
Nothing.
There's a wall in our basement, a basement filled with the tools of a teenager: a pool table, wet bar, an ostentatiously large television, and every video game known to man. The far wall slides back with a press of a button, a button hid beneath elegantly carved molding. Behind the wall lies the tools of killers. Guns, knives, and enough explosives to blow up a small country. We virtually live on top of a bomb, waiting to explode.
I'm waiting to explode.
"Little Eddie is growing up." Jasper teases. "I think Ma's gun is in here somewhere. The pink one. You wanna use Ma's gun, little Eddie?"
Jasper's nineteen and thinks he knows every-fucking-thing. He's obviously forgotten who he's dealing with.
I cock a nine and point it at his head. "Nah, you can use it, since you're the pussy-whipped bitch."
"You'd be pussy-whipped too, if you had a girl like Francesca," he says, grinning.
Emmett groans beside us. Younger than Jasper by two years, he could easily look the part of the eldest Carbone son. Towering over us at six-three, he's nothing but steely muscle. His menacing ways are hidden behind a childlike, innocent face and deceivingly trustful eyes. Out of the three of us, he's the biggest brute, although those who know him fail to see what his brothers know to be true.
"If I have to hear about Francesca one more time, I'll be the one to kill you," Emmett tells him.
Emmett forgoes the guns and grabs a black bag from the secret room. Although he doesn't open it, I know the contents of the bag. An assortment of knives rests inside, Emmett's personal, favorite weapon.
"Jealous," Jasper practically sings, grabbing a rifle.
I grab three bullet-proof vests from the room and toss them to Em. He frowns, just as pissed at having to wear them as I am, but our father has been uncharacteristically anxious the past few days, and we all know why.
Carlisle expects us to fail, because of me. Because I'm in charge for the first time.
Jasper lights a cigarette as soon as the tires on his car hit the Chicago streets.
"I can't believe Eddie-boy is going on his first mission," Jasper says, continuing to rile me up. "He's becoming a man."
"I've been a man since I was fifteen," I grumble. "The summer Maggie Donahoe let me wet my dick in her pussy."
"Donavon. Maggie Donavon." Emmett corrects me from the front seat, smiling and shaking his head in amusement. "That girl's name was Donavon, you horny, little bastard."
"Really? Huh. At least I got the hoe part right." I snicker.
"I hear that's some good stuff," Emmett says. "Irish pussy. She's a redhead, right? Was she a fucking firecrotch?"
"Fucking crazy is more like it," I mutter. "Followed me around school for weeks afterwards. Why are girls like that, man? We were drinking, one thing led to another and that's all there was to it. No strings. No strings."
"Most girls equate sex to love," Jasper replies, rolling down his window and dumping the ashes from his cigarette. "As they should."
"What a romantic," Emmett cooes, batting his eyelashes. Jasper shoulder-punches him, earning a belly-laugh from Em.
Rolling my eyes, I lift my ass from the seat and reach into my back pocket. Wrapping my fingers around cool metal, I remove a small bottle from my pocket and unscrew the top. Attached to the top is a long, slender spoon. I dip the spoon into the white powder inside the bottle before bringing the spoon to my nose and snorting the fuck out of it. The weight of someone's stare causes me to glance up. Em is gaping at me in disbelief.
"What the fuck, man?" he practically yells.
"Wha- you wanna bump?" I raise the spoon, offering him a taste.
Em proceeds to tear me a new one and I close my eyes. His voice pounds in my head, splattering my brains. Jasper's car is flying and I'm gliding in the night air with it. The wind whips in through his open window and it takes me away.
"I feel like heaven." I grin at Em, whose mouth is still moving, but I don't hear shit he says. The corners of my mouth tug upward, pulling me from the seat. If I float any higher I'll smash my head on the roof of Jasper's car.
Jasper clutches the steering wheel, swerving the car, intentionally I imagine, garnering Em's attention. "Give him a break. Jesus, he's a kid."
"We're on a job and he's fucking wasted. Look at his damn eyes. How can he concentrate when he's whacked out of his damn mind?" Em glares between Jasper and I.
"Coke helps me think," I say. "It takes the edge off. Just calm the fuck down. You're blowing my buzz."
"Coke takes the edge off. Fuck my life. That doesn't even make sense." Emmett snatches the bottle from my hand. Cold air rushes in from his open window as he rolls it down. My heart churns inside my chest, and I'm ready. I'm ready.
"I love you guys." I lean forward and slap them both in the back of their dumb heads.
"Maybe he's dying," Em grumbles, raising a thick eyebrow. "He's professing his undying love. Take a detour and head to the hospital, Jas."
The coolness in the air dies away, leaving me a diaphoretic mess. Sweat drips from my forehead. The bulletproof vest feels like it weighs a hundred pounds and I feel weak wearing it. The rip of velcro cuts through the air. Em and Jas say nothing about me tossing the vest on the floorboard. They removed theirs before we even left our driveway.
"You know, I've been thinking …" Em begins.
"We're all fucked then." Jasper's got jokes.
"As I was saying." Emmett continues. "I think I need some sort of speech or quote or some shit to say before I slice a person's throat."
"You're no Samuel L. Jackson, and this ain't Pulp Fiction." I cackle hysterically, an image of Em with a Jheri curl dancing in my head.
"Considering this is the first time you've done this, your opinion doesn't count," Em says, pulling the knife set from the floorboard.
The silver buttons holding the set together makes light, popping sounds as he opens the flaps. Silver blades gleam beneath the city street lights. Jasper lights another cigarette. Em cracks his knuckles, pure delight flashing in his eyes.
I press my forehead against the cool window beside me. "This isn't the first time I've killed someone, just the first time I've done it consciously."
My brothers are quiet. Buildings and businesses swirl by. Pedestrians roam the streets, some homeless, some hustling. The coke is my truth serum and the rush of excitement and adrenaline flowing through my veins prevents me from caring about what I say. Prevents me from caring about anything, really.
"Don't talk about Lauren," Jasper whispers, his voice pained. Wind whips his blonde hair around his head in a catastrophe of curls. "Not tonight."
Not tonight, or any other night.
This is my family, kings of Chicago and kings of avoidance. They never want to speak of the one thing that needs to be spoken. Lauren's name hasn't been uttered by our father in years, not since the night she died.
"Pretending she never existed doesn't mean she didn't. It doesn't help. It only makes things worse," I reply.
I stare into the night. Suburbia emerges. Two-story stone houses in shades of gray, brown, and beige; a gated community where I know James O'Sullivan is lurking. I know because I've been watching him for weeks now, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike him down. I'm bound to make a mess of this thing, this murder. I'll botch it up; at least if I keep thinking about my dead, twin sister I will.
Memories of my sister and the last night I saw her fade away, the rush of adrenaline taking her place. Jasper parks one block down from the gate, tucking the car between two others on the side of the street. Nine o'clock and strangely quiet in Chi-town.
Emmett studies the blade of a knife before sheathing it inside the thick, black belt around his waist. "You sure he's coming tonight?"
"I'm sure. James shows up every Friday night, selling to the same kid. Like clockwork."
"People think the money comes from the crackheads on the streets," Jasper mutters. "But it's the upper-middle-class that bring in all the cash. White-collar, hard working Americans. Looking for a little something to make their mundane lives a little brighter."
Jasper has a gun on each hip and two tucked inside his leather vest. My one, solitary gun rests in my unwavering hand, begging to be fired.
One gun. One bullet inside one gun. That's all I need.
Headlights flash around the corner. The light bounces off the vehicles parked on the sides of the streets. I tuck my nine in the back waistband of my jeans and tuck my hoodie around me tighter. Looking like any other kid in the neighborhood, I slide out of the car.
I'm the fucking man.
An old woman sits on the front porch of her brownstone, watching as I stagger beside the cars lining the road. The silky robe she wears flutters behind her as she ducks inside the house. The door slams like a gunshot in the night, final and resounding, but not as resounding as the bullet I'm about to put in James O'Sullivan's skull.
The black SUV slows and parks behind a familiar, gray Lexus. A greasy-haired kid emerges from the Lexus, his skin pasty and gleaming with moisture. He pinches a cigarette between his fingers, chiefing the tobacco and leaning against the car, waiting. Keeping my head ducked down, I smile at the click of a Hummer's door opening.
The greasy-haired kid laughs and taunts me, watching as I stagger into the road and fall to my knees. James chuckles, but the sound catches in his throat, bringing a smile to my face. Research has proven that James isn't that bad of a kid. Just the bored son of a rich politician who never had enough time for him. We're not much different, James and I, except that he won't live to see the light of day. And me? I'll live forever.
"You okay, kid?" James calls out to me, the sound bouncing off the parked cars and perfectly positioned trees lining the road. These homes, this neighborhood, hell, these people are fucking cardboard cutouts.
I begin talking nonsense; gibberish, which isn't too difficult, considering the random thoughts racing through my head. The soles of James's shoes scuff across the wet street. A chilling wind slices through the night air, and I shiver, already cold bone-deep. James leans down over me and a bag tied off with a rubber band falls to the ground, landing beside me.
Fucking fate.
"Brown sugar." I laugh, falling to my side. The stars shine overhead, past James's face. He snatches the bag from the ground and stands, gazing down at me warily, studying my face. We've never met, this I know for sure, but people know me. Everyone knows me.
I'm a fucking king.
"Gold coast slave ship bound for cotton fields, sold in a market down in New Orleans," I sing, grinning as I croon. "Scarred old slaver know he's doin' alright. Hear him whip the women just around midnight. Ah, brown sugar how come you taste so good? Ah, brown sugar, just like a young girl should."
I sit up, swaying with the breeze, and brush off my jeans. James takes a step back, stumbling once I remove the nine and click the safety. His body goes rigid, a statue frozen in time. The only moment is in his eyes, following me as I stand and take a step forward.
"This shit? This shit will kill you," I tell James, momentarily pointing my gun at the bag near my feet. "Brown sugar doesn't taste so sweet after all, does it?"
Greasy is long gone, cutting across the yards and dissolving into the darkness. A flash of a hulking figure in the moonlight tells me Emmett is close on his heels. Some housewife will find Greasy in her backyard with his throat sliced and his entrails spilled out in her flowerbed.
"My dad, he'll pay whatever you want. Just please, don't kill me."
"I don't need your money." I laugh at the ridiculousness of his begging.
"I have a family, just like you. A mom, dad, a sister."
James realizes his mistake as soon as he makes it, telling me that he does, in fact, know who I am. I press the muzzle against his lips, forcing his mouth open. He cries out into the night. Weakness is his voice. Knees shaking, he trembles as I twist the gun in his mouth.
"You got a sister, huh?" I ask.
James croaks and nods, holding his arms in the air at his sides, palms forward. Tears rush down his cheeks, spilling to the ground. I cock my nine and his eyes grow wide, wild.
"Bitch doesn't mean shit to me."
I pull the trigger and it's everything I thought it would be. Blood, tissue, and bone coats the air. Electricity jolts through my body, empowering me. James collapses at my feet in a bloody heap, the liquid gushing from between his gaping lips. Droplets of blood are everywhere, crimson stars glittering beneath the moon. A dog barks. Time stands still, until it doesn't.
A vehicle screeches beside me and someone shoves me inside. My mind is a blurry mess, my eyes fixated on the man in the road. I turn in my seat keeping my eyes on him until we coast down the hill and he's no longer in view.
Two years and twenty bodies later and I'm pretty much the same kid. I no longer crave the theatrics of a public shooting, one I was never questioned about let alone convicted of. No eyewitnesses, at least none that would go against the Carbone family. Hell, we run the city, bring in the cash-flow, provide hope for the hopeless.
Who would go against us?
Mayor O'Sullivan is up for re-election in two more years. Since the death of his son, the mayor and my father have come to terms with the way things run around here. They rub elbows, smoke expensive cigars while playing poker with the Russians once a month, and kiss each others' asses. Well, John O'Sullivan kisses my father's ass. My father, not so much. James O'Sullivan's death remains an unsolved mystery and his father, John, the poor bastard, believes my father can help him solve his case.
That or he realizes my father is behind his death and is terrified that he or the rest of his family are next.
"Wear your gray, pinstripe tonight, Edward," Ma says. "You are so handsome in the gray pinstripe."
"I'm handsome in anything," I respond, kissing her cheek. "You know black is my favorite color."
"Black, black, always wearing black." Ma throws her hands up in the air.
Flour floats around her face, drifting from her hands. She's been baking all day, her and our housekeeper, Vicky. Vicky pulls a tray of appetizers from the large fridge, dropping her eyes once she notices mine roaming her body. The redhead has killer curves, thick thighs and a plump ass. I grow hard remembering her writhing beneath me in my bed last night. I fucked her tits first, then her mouth, making her beg for my cock inside her. Twenty-three and straight off the boat from Italy, the girl does things to me in bed like no other.
I always fuck the help and Vicky's no exception.
"I hope you meet a nice girl tonight," Ma says, glancing suspiciously at Vicky who drops the tray on the bar with a loud thud.
I smirk and pluck an hors d'oeuvre from the tray. Vicky glances up and watches me pop it in my mouth. I hum around the food, slowly licking pesto from my thumb and shooting her a wicked grin. Ma doesn't miss her blush, thank god. I'm about tired of the girl anyway.
I want something … more.
"There are no nice girls, Ma. Their only goal in life is to be arm candy. Why's it so hard to find a girl with a functioning brain between her ears?"
"May I be excused for a moment?" Vicky asks, interrupting my mother before she can speak. Ma cuts her amber-colored eyes at the girl and gives a curt nod. Vicky shuffles from the room, the stereotypical maid's uniform not as attractive hugging her thighs as I remember it in days past.
"How long have you been sleeping with our maid?" Ma asks, and I nearly choke on the new hors d'oeuvre in my mouth.
I swallow the savory appetizer and grin. "Which one?"
Ma begins cursing in Italian, her caramel curls bouncing around her head. Normally I'd find her indigent anger humorous, but today it's purely annoying. I calm her with a touch and a boyish grin. The stiffness in her body melts under my fingertips resting on her shoulder.
"You'll put me in an early grave. You better hope she doesn't formulate some bullshit sexual harassment case against her employers." Ma rubs her forehead leaving a white trail behind. Guilt rushes through me for a moment. Ma looks so tired.
"Good thing we've got cameras in every room then, huh?" I ask, winking, laughing as her skin pales. "Don't worry. I've got the video feed hidden away from Pops. Don't want to give the old man a heart attack anytime soon."
Pops learned his lesson years ago when a former employee accused him of the same offense. Cameras were installed shortly after.
"There's a good boy hiding inside you somewhere, Edward Antonio Carbone," Ma mutters, tapping her dusty finger against my temple. "I've raised you better than this."
Ma turns her back to me and faces the stove. I mull over her words and watch her putter around the kitchen for a while.
"How did you and Pops make it work?" I ask, curiously. "When did you know you were in love with him?"
"The first moment we met," Ma replies, her voice soft.
"That's impossible," I mutter, my face hot with disbelief. "That's not the way the world really works. That's stuff of fairy tales. Love at first sight doesn't exist."
Ma sighs, walks to the sink, and rinses her hands. Using the apron she wears to dry her hands, she turns and catches my eye. There's a story resting on her lips. I always know where there's a story to be told by my mother because her eyes drift somewhere far away and her lips twist into a small smile. I settle myself on a barstool and lean on my elbows.
"Carlisle and I weren't much different than Jasper and Francesca," she whispers, her confession stunning me.
"You were in an arranged marriage?"
Ma nods. "Since birth. We met when I was thirteen. Carlisle was eighteen. And it was love. All-consuming, gut-wrenching, endless love."
"I never knew your marriage was pre-arranged." My voice is accusatory, my chest tightening with each spoken word. I feel betrayed somehow, not aware of this information until now.
"You never asked," Ma says, shrugging. "I grew up knowing I would marry this man. Before I met him, I hated him. Hated the very idea of him. I wasn't like my sisters. They were more complacent and went along with the rules of the Old World. Anything our father said was set in stone, as far as they were concerned. I was the rebellious one, unbelieving in the roles our father demanded of us girls."
"What changed?"
Ma smiles. "I met your father. And it was love."
"Do you think the same thing will happen for Jasper and Francesca? When they finally meet after all these years?" I ask, a strange sense of foreboding gathering in my chest.
Ma reaches out and brushes a stray strand of dark hair from my forehead. "I guess we'll find out at their engagement party tonight."
"Calm the fuck down," I mutter.
Jasper stills beside me, fumbling with his green, silk tie for the millionth time. I've never seen him so nervous before, his eyes darting around the room, a flush to his cheeks. Looking for Francesca, I assume, searching for the girl who he's only seen on the screen of his phone or computer.
I'm no help to my brother since I've never seen her myself. My brain goes numb and my hearing leaves me every time he mentions her name. Self-absorbed, I suppose. At least, that's what my father has always said.
"What's she look like?" I ask, out of boredom.
There's girls milling around everywhere, dressed in elegant gowns, some modest, some not. I've been eying a blonde lingering near the parlor door. She's staring longingly at the baby grand piano nearby. If she's lucky, I'll tickle the ivories and make her sing tonight.
And I'm not talking about the piano.
"Dark hair, dark eyes." Jasper shifts his weight from one foot to the other and sips his bourbon. Lowering the glass, he cuts his eyes at me. "The most gorgeous girl you can imagine."
My mind conjures up an image of a black-haired nymph, for whatever reason. The picture fades easily enough as the blonde notices my intense stare. She smiles, her blue eyes dropping to her heels before darting back up to mine. I nudge my brother and nod in her direction.
"So it's safe to say that's not Francesca?"
Jasper laughs, shaking his head at the hope in my voice. "That's definitely not Francesca."
"Good."
I smirk and leave him where he stands, still chuckling. Weaving through the Chicago elite that fills my home, lawyers, doctors, bankers, friends, family, I'm stopped several times before I can make it to where my nightly conquest awaits me.
Unfortunately, Emmett arrives at her side before I even make it halfway across the room. I hold a stiff conversation with my uncle, Aro, a cold-hearted, scandalous mother fucker, while watching Em escort her from the room.
"I have it on good authority that you'll be taking the blood oath soon," Aro says in a dropped tone of voice, immediately snagging my attention.
"Yeah?"
Aro nods, sipping champagne and watching me over the rim of his glass with his black eyes. He reminds me of a raven, dark and cunning, wings of ebony hair slicked-back on his head. The strands end at his shoulders, brushing the expensive Italian suit he wears. The man is soulless, and just like the bird, I imagine him picking the meat off a person's bones after he destroys them.
The man is everything I long to be.
"Are you ready to pledge your loyalty to the family?" he questions, in a low tone.
"I was born ready."
Aro smiles. "That's my boy."
Carlisle demands Aro's attention and the two wander away, conversing with a couple of fat cats in the corner of the room. I'm looking for a rush, and the blonde is a no-go now that Em's taken her away. There's a cold glass vial of powdery excitement resting in the inside pocket of my tux.
Too lazy to climb the sweeping staircase leading upstairs to my bedroom, I step outside onto the terrace. Night has crept in, cold and black. The chill soothes my heated skin, and the rush awaits me. Party goers are standing around on the veranda, chatting and searching the smoggy sky for stars that rarely make an appearance. I murmur a few hellos before excusing myself down the stairs leading to Ma's garden.
I hide beneath a towering sassafras tree and hit a bump real quick. My feet follow a well-worn path, my nostrils tingling. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and tuck the glass bottle back inside my pocket.
The sounds of the city echo in the night, and I love the fact that we're never far away from Chicagoland. Sometimes, if I squint my eyes hard enough, I can see the lights in the distance, past the marble angels solemnly standing tall in the garden.
One catches my eye, and my breath leaves me when it moves. Ghostly white material flows around the creamy-smooth texture of the angel's legs, and I'm rendered motionless, rooted in place. Awed by her beauty, I question what I just snorted, if it was too pure, or did I snort too much.
The angel turns.
Breathtaking is the only word that comes to mind. Pale skin and black-lined, eyes stare back at me. Brown sugar is their color. Not the same dull brown of heroine, but the color of real, brown sugar. Sweet and innocent. Pure. Red lips, the bottom one tucked neatly between her teeth, the angel stares back at me. Dark curls are piled on her head, thick, silky curls. Tendrils escape the clutches of what pins them in place, and they dance along the nape of her neck.
"I'm sorry. I didn't know anyone was here."
A needless apology and my eyes blink. She's not an angel, but a girl, a girl who looks to be around my age. A girl whose voice is thick with an Italian accent. She shifts awkwardly beside a statue, her eyes darting unassumingly at my face. Coming to my senses, I shove my hands casually in my pockets and join her beside the statue. Heat melts off her body, and I know it's just the coke.
Isn't it just the coke?
Waves of it engulf me, wrapping around my body in a soothing embrace.
Something's wrong with the coke.
The confidence I normally exude, intermingled with the drug, doesn't arrive. I feel like a child standing beside this girl, the two of us staring silently at the base of the angel statue. Words have escaped me, so I read aloud the words carved in the stone.
"I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul."
The girl glances up from the words and our eyes connect simultaneously. White heat radiates from my nose and shoots out through the tips of my toes.
"This is a first for me," she says, smiling around her teasing words. "A man waxing poetry to me beneath the moonlight."
Her tone is teasing, but I can't find it within me to smile or laugh. The grin she holds wavers and falls away, and for a moment I feel as though I will float away with it.
"That's a pity," I say, struggling to smile, but failing, "that your first time listening to a man recite poetry for you is from someone like me. A beautiful woman like you ..."
A shiver runs through her body. The gauzy dress she's wearing is light and thin, like air. She warms her bare arms with her hands, briskly rubbing away the chill.
"Are you okay?" I ask. "You're trembling."
"I'm fine."
"Are you cold?"
"No, I'm not cold. You're shivering too."
Air sweeps through my lungs, trapping itself behind a closed throat as she steps forward. Pearl-white painted nails and ringless fingers brush across my forehead, in an almost loving way. Fine moisture beads across my forehead and she brushes it away. I'm caught up in the concern in her eyes, in the way she stares at me, her cheeks burning as she realizes the intimacy of her touch. I want to tell her everything, that it's not the evening chill or the coke I snorted causing me to shiver. But I say nothing. Sooner than I would like, her hands abandon my skin and she takes a step back.
"This garden is beautiful," she says, glancing around. There is no light other than the beams of the moon reflecting the milky-white marble of the statues. "Why is it hidden away from the rest of the property?"
"It's a memorial garden," I say, blinking away the trance she holds over me. "For Lauren Carbone."
"Lauren Carbone," she repeats, pursing her lips. "What happened to her?"
"No one is certain. Her and her twin brother snuck out late one night, went to a party, and she never made it home." I fail to mention that I'm that brother, the one who talked his twin sister into sneaking out of the house late that night, the last night she was ever seen alive. Telling the story as an outside participate helps ease the burn, makes it seem like it happened to someone else.
The girl's skin becomes sallow. "What happened to her brother?"
"He woke up in his own bed the next day with a blurred memory of the previous night." I stare up unseeingly into the eyes of the marble statue. "Investigators found blood in the driveway of the house where the party was thrown. Lots of blood and hair. Her hair. No trace of Lauren."
"So there's still hope," she says, something I can't quite grasp shining in her eyes. "Hope that she's still alive."
"Lauren's not alive," I murmur, feeling at odds with myself for discussing my sister with a stranger. I don't even discuss her with my own family. "The amount of blood … trust me, she's not alive. The family eventually came to terms with the fact that she's never coming back. Esme Carbone created this garden in memory for her daughter, but she doesn't come out here very often."
"Someone does," she whisper, glancing around at the blooming flowers, their scent hanging heavily in the air. "Someone takes care of this garden."
I want to confess that it's me who maintains the garden, but I say nothing, feeling weak under the memory of my sister. Instead, I tiredly run my fingers through my hair and search for the city in the distance. A faint glow rests beyond the trees, reminding me of a night full of excitement, a night of sneaking out late and the thrill of getting caught.
Nowadays I search for cheap thrills in other places. In drugs and women, but not in a woman like the one standing beside me.
"It's not his fault, you know."
I glance at the girl, the stranger who's solemnly standing beside me.
"What do you mean?"
"It's not his fault. It's not her brother's fault."
"He was supposed to look after her," I mumble. "That's what brothers do. He was too busy shooting up to watch after his kid sister. He failed her. He failed everyone."
"What happened to him? Her brother?"
I drop my gaze to the ground and snort out a dry laugh. My shoulders sag along with my chest. Sadness siphons through my sternum, an almost debilitating pain.
Nothing's happened to him. He's still the same asshole he's always been.
"What's your story?" I ask, turning to face her as I change the subject. "Not a big fan of parties?"
The girl laughs, wrapping her arms around her torso to cling to her own heat. I begin to shrug my jacket from my shoulders, feeling like an ass for not offering it sooner, but she waves a dismissive hand.
"Tonight … tonight isn't a good night for me," she says, the laughter and smile fading. "I needed to escape for a little while and find something to take my mind off things."
"And did you? Did you find what you were looking for?" I ask, that hope she earlier spoke of swelling in my chest.
The girl's cheeks burn, crimson against lily white. Her gaze is as shy as my voice. "Yes. I found exactly what I was looking for."
Warmth radiates through my veins, forcing me to take a step towards her. Laughter and music from the party past the garden fizzles away, and all I can hear is her quickening breaths. "Why the need to escape?"
"I don't want to be here tonight," she whispers, and I can see it. I see the truth behind her eyes. "I want to be anywhere but here."
Her hand presses against my chest, wandering over the plains and ridges until her fingers grow still. She shoots a curious glance up at me, quirking a brow. One hand dips inside and retrieves the glass bottle. Her lips part.
"You want me to take you away from here?" I ask, taking the bottle from her hand.
She nods, her eyes never leaving my fingers as I make quick work twisting the top of the bottle off. Attached to the inside of the top is thin spoon. I dip the slender spoon into the powder and hold it up to her nose. Pressing a finger against one nostril, she takes a tentative sniff.
The euphoria crashes over her instantly, forcing her body against mine. Groaning, I lean down and capture her lips, savoring the taste of something sweet painted along the surface. Her mouth opens and her tongue meets mine, swirling along with each heated stroke before sucking my tongue. The sensation travels straight to my groin, tightening me. She sucks my tongue like I want her to suck my dick, and suddenly I can think of nothing else. I gently push her against a nearby tree, my breath stuttering as she fumbles with my belt and takes my heated cock in her hand.
Grinding against her palm, I whisper her name and place light kisses along her graceful neck. The zipper running the length along the back of her dress glides down smoothly beneath my fingers. The white dress flutters to the ground, exposing her white, lace bra and panties. She continues to stroke my cock in stride, only faltering once I push the wet fabric between her legs aside and pinch her outer lips between my fingers. Her clit is trapped somewhere inside, and I give her lips a firm squeeze, smirking at the wetness coating my fingers.
She lightly moans, pushing herself against my hand, silently begging for more contact. I run the tip of my finger across her slit, brushing the pad against her inner lips and swollen clit. She shudders against me and I ease two fingers inside. The angel freezes. Panic flashes in her eyes.
"You're a virgin."
"You say that like it's a bad thing," she mumbles against my lips, her body beginning to relax. "Please don't stop."
I'm torn, wanting nothing more than to fuck this girl beneath the shadows of the trees growing in my family's backyard. Taking a girl's virginity isn't a foreign concept to me, nothing I haven't done before.
Shoving aside a strange sense of guilt, I press my fingers deeper inside. She shudders against me, tugging my hair between her fingers and gasping for breath.
I pause, stilling my shaking hand as much as I can. "Am I hurting you?"
"No more than I expected."
My fingers slip away, but she grasps my wrist and presses her heat against me. We groan in succession as the palm of my hand rests snugly against her clit. She buries her head against my chest and lifts her leg, wrapping it around my waist. Gripping my cock more firmly inside her hand, she continues where she left off, stroking me and now tentatively riding my fingers.
"Oh," she whispers.
I wonder how it feels to her. A new feeling of something imbedded inside her tight, slick wetness. Filling something that's never been filled. The pain seems to subside and I delve deeper, curling my fingers and searching for that place inside every woman's body. The small, spongy area brushes against the tips of my middle finger and I press into it, swirling my finger around and hitting it each time I pass it by.
The movement of her hips increase, and she's breathlessly silent. Her body stills and her walls constrict around my finger. Wetness pulses between her legs, dripping down my wrist. No longer able to contain myself, I lift her limp body up, my cock slipping from her hand. I press her back against the tree and jut my hips forward, coating myself in the wetness between her legs. Running my cock along her wet slit, I grind myself against her heat, teasing but never enter.
Rolling her hips, she leaves a dripping mess behind. She begs me fuck her against the tree, but I resist and continue to slide my cock along her slit. My fingers dig into her sides near her waist, my body wanting nothing more than to plunge deep in her body and stay inside her forever.
One last cry and her body shudders against me, the sound fueling my own orgasm. Her body goes limp, and I hold her in my arms, stunned that I held back from what I normally take from a woman without a second thought.
The slickness of her forehead rests against my cheek and I hold her in place against the tree, never wanting to move.
"What was that?" she whispers, and I know she felt it too.
"It's the coke," I tell her, but I'm a fucking liar.
"I can't feel my legs," she whispers, peppering kisses along my neck. "And it has nothing to do with the coke."
The stranglehold of her legs diminishes and I regretfully steady her until she's standing on two weakened legs. She turns to gather her dress and I notice superficial scratches from the tree bark reddening her back. Once she pulls her dress back in place, I remove the pins from her hair, capturing her body with my nearness. She inhales a quick breath and stills, saying nothing as I finish removing the pins from her hair. Dark curls tumble past her shoulders, veiling the scratches.
"As much as I'd love for the world to see how I marked you, I doubt you feel the same way."
I gasp as she pulls my face closely to hers, pressing her lips against mine in a desperate frenzy. Groaning into her mouth, I lose myself in her kiss.
"What's your name?" I laugh at the idiocy of the situation. "I don't even know your name."
"Bella. My name is Bella."
"Bella," I whisper, and maybe it's the coke, but I don't want to release her. I want to hold on to her forever.
I open my mouth to tell her this, to tell her that she's mine now, to tell her that she's fucked up my brain. But Bella's own name is called into the night by a feminine voice, breaking whatever spell rests between us. Bella's eyes grow wide and she gathers her gauzy skirts in her hands. Queasiness bubbles in my stomach as she darts around me. I reach out, grasping her elbow and calling her name. She struggles against me and I release her, the new-found gentleman inside me not wanting to injure her arm. With one last glance back, she darts across the garden, an angel fading into darkness.
And I follow.
The families of mobsters have changed over the years.
Some are more lenient, allowing different bloodlines to enter their own. Irish, Russian, and Italian leaders come together, introducing their daughters and sons in hopes to formulate a matrimonial bond in hopes that their combined families will reign supreme.
Other families, mine included, never stray from the bloodlines, often arranging marriages from birth for their eldest male children. The mob princes are groomed to be the best: domineering, calculating, intelligent, loyal. Above all, loyal. The women are raised to be strong, patient, kind, understanding, complacent. And loyal. Above all, loyal. Men and women alike have been struck down by their own kin over infidelity. Disloyalty.
"You met your wifey yet?" I ask Jasper, grinning at his frown. He mumbles something below his breath, but my attention is already nonexistent. My eyes scan the crowd filing into our parents dining room, looking past the waiters in their penguin suits and the leering women whispering to one another and gazing our way.
Bella is still nowhere to be found.
Carlisle enters the room, standing proudly beside my mother. They are the picture of fucking perfection, swathed in expensive, Italian fabrics with matching, pearly-white smiles on their faces. Jealousy stabs my chest. A longing I've never understood until this night slices and twists inside the pumping organ hidden behind muscle and bone.
"Everyone knows why we're gathered here tonight," Carlisle says, and the volume in the room instantly diminishes. His steely eyes slice across the room, daring anyone to part their lips and utter a word, but the room is stone silent. "Twenty-one years ago, God blessed Franco and Allegra Albero with a baby girl, a baby girl named Francesca. Six months later, God blessed Esme and I with our firstborn son, Jasper. The union of these two children will unite Carbone and Albero families forever."
"Woot! An older woman," Emmett yells from across the room. He's leaning against the wall with a shit-eating grin on his face. There's a barely audible round of hushed giggles that quickly fades away. Carlisle cuts his eyes at Em, but Em just shrugs. Em's the only one who can get away with these sort of antics.
"As I was saying." Carlisle continues, clearing his throat and forcing a smile through his irritation. "Please join us in welcoming the newest member to the Carbone family, Francesca Isabella Albero."
Quiet cheers and polite clapping fills the room, but the only sound I register is the sound of her name. Isabella. It's her. I know it's her from the moment 'Isabella' slips through my father's lips. Blood drains from my body, dizziness, confusion, and eventual anger taking its place. Bella steps into the room, standing to the right of my parents. To the left of her is an attractive, petite woman who is an older spitting image of the woman I met in the garden. A man I presume to be Bella's father stands to his wife's side, beaming, his thick, mustache twitching behind his smile, and his hands resting on his pot belly.
Carlisle's eyes land on me, but I don't see them. I feel his gaze. I'm always aware of my father's gaze, searching my face, reading the thoughts that I normally keep hidden in the darkest corner of my mind.
Bella avoids my penetrating stare until she no longer has a choice. Carlisle leads her to the table and my brother stands, accidently bumping the heavy wood so harshly that the china shakes. Esme laughs, murmuring something about Jasper being so excited to finally meet his fiance.
Fiance.
Carlisle gestures to me, the bourbon in his hand sloshing up the sides of the glass, but never spilling. Never spilling. "And this is my youngest son. Edward."
"Hello, Edward. I'm Francesca Isabella." The girl in the garden extends her hand and I stare at it, a snake in the garden. She's a snake in the garden. "But my friends call me Bella."
Ignoring her hand, I pick up my glass of scotch and salute her before slamming it back. My father stares at me, his eyes narrowed and lips twisted disapprovingly.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," I say. "Francesca."
Two weeks and three bottles of scotch later, I find myself standing by my bedroom window watching Francesca pull into the drive.
This girl will be my downfall. She is my downfall.
After the engagement party, a party in which Jasper placed our great-grandmother's opal ring on Francesca's quivering ring finger, I learned that Francesca would be moving in with us within a matter of days. This is my father's way of preparing her for a life in Chicago, a life far from Italy, where she's spent her entire life.
The minutes crept by, then the hours, insurmountable time filled with my mother's voice droning on and on about bridal showers and wedding venues. Drinking helped deaden the pain, only to be resurfaced whenever her name was spoken.
Francesca. Francesca Isabella. Bella.
Out of my hands. Out of my control.
I'm never out of control; not when I drink, not when I snort. There's only been one time in my life that I felt out of control, and that was the one and only night I shot up, the night my sister disappeared.
"Edward, aren't you going to help Bella with her bags?"
I cringe at the sound of my mother's voice and drop the empty bottle of scotch to the floor. Made of thick glass, it doesn't break against the aged wood. The bottle rolls a couple of feet, spilling droplets of liquid on the shiny surface of the floor Vicky so diligently polished earlier today. Even the curvy redhead doesn't pull me from my thoughts. She only irritates me, pissing me off with her quiet pleas of helping me to 'feel better.'
"Let it go, sweetie," my mother whispers, this time catching my attention. Standing near my bedroom doorway, pain etches her face, lining her forehead.
"Let what go, Ma?"
"Whatever is troubling you. Let it go. This is a happy time for our family … for your brother. A time of celebration."
I nod, holding back a bitter bark of laughter. I want to scream at her, asking about my happiness, my time of celebration.
I finally found the one thing, other than drugs, that makes me feel something. When Lauren died, a part of me died as well. And for the first time since Lauren passed away, I feel alive.
"I'm asking everyone in the family to place a gift for Jasper and Bella in Nonni's trousseau," Ma says, her face slightly more relaxed. "We'll present it to them at the wedding as a gift from all of us, so think about a gift you can give them, okay?"
Ma disappears before I can respond. I glance back through the glass, watching as Jasper greets his fiance in the drive. He grabs a couple of her bags, his face wide with an honest grin. I touch the glass, right beside where her face comes into view. Almost as if she feels my presence, she looks up, but I'm gone. I disappear with the rise of her elegant chin.
I'm a virtual stranger in my own home.
Francesca's presence is constant, a nagging mosquito on a hot summer's day. I sidestep rooms to avoid her, obsesses over packing and re-packing my belongings for college, and drink. Anything to avoid seeing her, thinking of her, but it doesn't work. I'm constantly on edge, twitching like a fein. I need a distraction and quick.
In my search for a deterrent from my morose thoughts, I find an old book hidden behind the books lining my shelves. Pale red, the corners frayed and the pages yellowed, I recognize the book as soon as my eyes fall on the nearly pink binding. Swallowing the knot in my throat, I remove the book from the shelf and carefully open it, glancing down at the inside cover. My twin sister's name is faded in time, but still legible.
Lauren Antonia Carbone
My sister loved to read. She read anything from horror and suspense to mystery and crime, but romance and poetry, those were her favorite things. I flip through the dog-eared pages until my hand stills. My finger skims over a passage, a sonnett she once loved.
"I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul."
The scent of something sweet and feminine wafts in the room, and for a moment I imagine my sister walking through my doorway. She would wrap her arms around my neck and tease me for my broody ways. But it's not Lauren standing in the doorway.
Francesca knocks tentatively on the thick, wooden door, a door that's already open in invitation, although I'm not inviting her inside anytime soon. I stand, closing the book and facing her. Trepidation graces her face. Her shoulders are stiff, her stance uncertain. Wringing her hands, she glances curiously around the room.
I clear my throat, and her eyes snap back to mine.
"Can I help you?" I ask, my voice not cold, but formal. Detached.
"Edward, we need to talk."
Her voice ... her voice draws me in. I want to close the space between us, take her in my arms, make love to her on a bed like she deserves instead of dry-humping her against the roughness of a tree with a man she's never met.
Francesca seems to feel the pull as well and takes a step forward, but halts once I hold my hand palm up.
"I get it," I say, laughing. Cold. A pawn in my own game. "What you did … I've done the same thing. It's retribution, I suppose. Paying for my sins. Karma."
"Edward, I don't understan-"
"You used me," I say, sneering. My throat constricts as her face falls. "Let me guess, now you're here to make sure I don't rat you out? Tell my brother how his fiancee almost fucked a stranger in his own backyard?"
I run my fingers through my hair, continuing my rant. "Well, let me tell you something, Francesca, I have just as much to lose if my brother and father finds out what happened that night."
"I'm not here asking for your silence," she whispers. "I'm here asking for your forgiveness and maybe a chance to explain why I did what I did."
Leaning on the bookshelf, I give a dramatic sweep of my hand. "Well, by all means, Francesca, explain away."
"My life is one without choices," she says, hesitantly entering the room. The twisted wood of a bedpost is where her hand rests, exploring the embedded swirls. "From the day I was born I've been told what to do, what to say, who to befriend, what to wear. I've been groomed into the person, this person I've never wanted to be."
Fingertips drop from the wooden post. My fingers twitch as she approaches, the weight of her hand featherlight, but as heavy as my heart once it touches my face.
"And then I met you, in the garden, a man with so much regret. Even more regret than me. And for once in my life, I didn't feel so alone, but now I do. I feel so alone, Edward. You don't look at me, you refuse to speak to me."
"Don't make this my fault." I scowl, but don't brush her away. I should shrug her hands away. They're dirty, disloyal hands. But I don't, because I crave her touch. I crave everything about her.
"There's no fault. What happened that night, it was no mistake."
"We can't talk about this." I glance worriedly at the open doorway. "If someone finds out, it could destroy everything. It could destroy us both. Pretend it didn't happen."
Francesca smiles, glancing at my lips, her eyes darkening. "How can I pretend something didn't happen between us? That something still isn't happening between us?"
"Francesca ..."
"Bella. Call me Bella."
"Bella," I sigh. "What is it that you want from me?"
"A sign," she replies. "A confession. Something that tells me you feel this." She gestures between us. "And want it to continue, even ... even if it's in secret."
My father's muffled voice floats down the hallway. Francesca's eyes widen, her panic surging through the fingertips resting on my face. Taking a step back, she moves away just in time. My father enters the room, one brow raised in curiosity at the flushed girl standing between us.
"There a problem here?" he asks, eyes darting between us.
"No problem," I reply smoothly, shooting him a casual grin. I take a step forward, but not before pausing beside Francesca, beside Bella, and handing her my sister's book of love sonnets.
"For your trousseau. Consider it an early wedding present."
"Thank you," she whispers.
"You're welcome. There's a sonnet in there I'm sure you're familiar with. I think it's the answer you've been searching for."
A human skull rests on a bookshelf in my father's office,tucked between the family Bible and a framed portrait of my parents on their wedding day.
Carlisle Carbone removes the skull and places it in the center of the desk. I stand before him, clasping my jittering hands in front of me. Dark suited men, relatives, silently crowd the edges of my father's office. My brothers are among the men, all of them watching, witnessing, this ancient tradition.
Carlisle picks up a knife from the desk. The blade shimmers against the flames flickering from the wicks of candles lining his bookshelves, the only dim light in the room. He places the tip of the blade in the center of my bottom lip. Gratifying pain stabs through my lip as the blade splits the fragile, pink surface. Jasper, my brother, my blood, takes the knife from our father and hands him the skull. Blood drips from my chin and splatters against the crimson-stained bone.
"As my blood spills onto this skull tonight," I say, my voice strong. "So will my blood spill if I betray the Carbones."
Emmett steps forward, a thick book in his hands. I sign my name beneath my brothers' and press my thumb against my bloody lip. I seal my loyalty with a crimson thumbprint pressed against the pages stained with blood and time. But the loyalty of my heart? It doesn't exist in this room filled with eager men in expensive suits. The loyalty of my love exists in the shadows of a garden, inside a heart that beats solely for me, but belongs to someone else.
A couple readers requested this repost. In the Shadows was written in 2014 as a gift for SunflowerFran's birthday. I will also repost Will o' the Wisp soon as requested by readers.