“MALIA,I’MSOSORRY,” Tawny sputters.
Stepping into my mother, I watch as her spine snaps as straight as steel. She raises her chin, refusing to let the façade fall, but the truth of fear shows clear in her eyes.
“I think you forget who the fuck you’re talking to, Mother.” I watch her as the smell of fear fills my nostrils. She helped create the monster that’s buried under my skin.
“Touch me again, and your head will decorate my bedpost. You’re not sorry; you never have been. But the next time you touch me… you will be.”
With my threat hanging in the air, I leave her to stew in her fear. Tawny Olin doesn’t deserve the air she breathes, but I have yet to bring myself to kill her. I’ve never been one to hesitate when ending someone’s life, and I know the end of hers would be a release for most of us, especially me and my father. But he would feel responsible for it.
Does The Omen care if my mother lives or breathes? No. But he blames his inability to love her for how she has turned out and for my torment.
Wandering aimlessly through the mansion, I find myself outside. Today is warmer than the last few, and the sun is high with no evidence of yesterday’s rain. I prefer nighttime—the moon and stars and the blanket of cold dark that shrouds the world. All the world’s best playthings come out to frolic when the sun goes down.
What is it they say? The freaks come out at night.
Deep voices capture my attention. Rounding the corner of the terrace, I spot Donovan and Breckin lost in conversation. The wind carries snatches of their words toward me, piquing my interest. I walk closer, unbothered by the possibility of getting caught.
“I’m gathering some men and expect you to handle tonight’s shipment.”
Donnie’s back faces me while he speaks, and Breckin’s gaze shifts to acknowledge my appearance.
“I’m meeting with my uncle tonight,” Donovan continues. “He believes they have a rat within their circle. The man’s contained, but there’s belief something bigger is brewing. It could involve us. They’ve invited me to play.”
My ears perk up like a cat finding her prey.
“Sounds like fun,” I chirp. “Am I invited?”
I beam at my brother when he whips around to face me. If there’s a mouse in a trap, I’ll be damned if I won’t sink my claws in it. Donovan rolls his eyes, and he knows I won’t back down from this.
Especially when this will release some… tension.
“I don’t need your help, Mal.” He runs his hand down his face, already bored with the argument he will lose. “What makes you think you can crack him if our uncle can’t?”
A dreamy smile stretches across my face, thinking of how I could do just that. My hands are already twitching to wrap around someone’s throat.
“You know she could get them talking in no time,” Breckin argues.
Despite the weird place all three of us are in at this moment, I appreciate the acknowledgment. I nod my thanks to the overgrown ogre and turn my attention back to Donovan.
“Christ, fine.” Donovan grunts. “But I’m in charge, Malia.”
“You got it, Captain Princess,” I salute, belting out a laugh when my brother groans his protests.
I make my way toward my bedroom, a near skip in my step from the excitement bubbling inside me. If there’s one thing I am good at, it’s getting people to talk, and Donovan knows it. His resistance comes from his finding my methods… shall we say, less than savory.
DONOVAN AND I WALK through the dingy basement, the click of my heels bouncing off the walls accompanied by the sound of water dripping from the surrounding pipes. The light in is just enough to keep us from running face-first into the wall.
My brother wears a button-down green shirt, representing our mafia’s colors, and black pressed slacks. His role as heir requires him to look the part. I smirk, knowing he’d much rather be wearing a stained t-shirt, joggers, and sneakers.
He tugs at the collar of his shirt, uncomfortable in his chosen attire.
“You didn’t need to dress up for me, you know?” I tease.
Donovan drops his hands when I smirk at him, a flush on his cheeks, embarrassed I caught him fiddling.
“Not all of us are comfortable dressing up to play a part,” he mumbles.
“Playing a part are the keywords in that sentence, little brother. After all, this is our uncle, and you don’t owe him shit. Not even pretty dresses.”