Prologue
Leo
I hate leather shoes.
As I stare down at them gleaming on my feet, surrounded by short blades of grass, black, stiff, clean, all I can think of is how I want the earth to disappear beneath them so I, too, can vanish.
I always seem to be wearing leather shoes on days I want to run away. Days at that stupid private school where all the boys think about are grades and girls, girls who think they’re too pretty or too smart for anyone to deserve them. Jerks and phonies, all of them. The teachers are no better, always expecting you to behave a certain way, never teaching you anything important. I hate that school.
Then there are the days at church. My mom always insists we all look our best. Why? I’ll never understand it. So that other people will think we’re good? Isn’t it what’s on the inside that matters? Isn’t that what God supposedly judges, not how ironed your shirt is or how nice your dress is? I’ll never even understand why we go to church. It’s just the same things over and over. Doesn’t God get tired of that? I do. I nearly fall asleep each time while staring at the shiny cross above the altar.
And the fancy parties. Who likes those? Not me. The food may be good, but I can barely enjoy it when I’m trying not to make a mess or a sound. And I do try, but I’ve failed a few times. Once, I nearly choked on an olive. Another time, I knocked over a glass of wine and it ended up spilling on the linen, dripping on the floor. Some drops even landed on my black leather shoes. I knew that crimson puddle was wine, and yet it felt like blood because everyone was looking at me like I’d just killed someone.
Oh, and there was that time I had a piano recital and I was so nervous that I threw up on my shoes just before I was supposed to play.
Fond memories. Was there ever a time that I had fun while wearing leather shoes, even remotely? I don’t recall.
Oh, wait. There was one time last year…
~
“Cazzo!”
The curse, one of the few Italian words I’ve picked up from my father, leaves my lips as I hurl the game controller at the bed. On the screen, glaring words in red declare my defeat right to my face. I swallow the lump of bitterness in my throat.
If my mom were here, if she heard what I just said, she’d be looking at me in shock and disappointment. Then she’d probably scold me roughly and then take away my gaming console. That’s fine. I’m used to being scolded and punished. I don’t mind not being able to play, either. It’s not like I’m a gamer or anything. I’m just playing to pass the time because I don’t have anything better to do.
It’s a Saturday and here I am stuck in my room. Why did Andrea have to go to New York with my dad? He promised he’d teach me how to fight with a knife this weekend. Why couldn’t they have taken me with them? Or why couldn’t I have gone with Vito? I saw him packing his gun. I bet he’s about to do something exciting. I wouldn’t even have minded going with Cain. He looks so serious sometimes, but that only makes him seem cooler. I bet he never does anything lame. He barely talks to me, even though I’m his half-brother. Sometimes, I think he doesn’t see me as any kind of brother.
At any rate, I’m bored. Maybe I should go and see what my twin brother, Antonio, is up to?
Antonio and I look the same on the outside. Brown hair. Blue eyes. We even have the same oval birthmark on our right arms, near the inside of our elbows. The only differences? The second toes on Antonio’s feet are longer than the first, something I used to tease him about. Not that anyone else notices, probably because we spend so much time wearing those lousy leather shoes. Also, Antonio is a few inches taller than me, a fact that I resent. He’s already the nicer twin. Does he have to be taller, too? It’s not obvious, though, unless we’re standing side by side.
I guess the best way to tell us apart is the fact that Antonio has a scar above his left eyebrow, which is my fault. I didn’t do it on purpose. We were playing with our toys. I swung my toy plane around and the sharp edge of the wing cut Antonio right above his eye. I remember that there was so much blood. Antonio had to be brought to the hospital for stitches and my mom was afraid he would never see again. She took away all my toys after that, only giving them back after Antonio convinced her it was an accident. Somehow, he’s always the one defending me, interceding for me. But hey, it’s not my fault he’s the one people listen to.