Page 103 of Kissing the Villain

For most of my life, I was reckless and out of control. Chaos called to me, taunting me to stir up more drama.

When Marcello was born, I was eighteen months old. I didn’t remember holding him, but I had seen the pictures of my mom placing Marcello in my arms. I sat on the couch beside my parents with that crazed look in my eyes.

Back then, I knew I wasn’t normal. My cold, blue irises had a hollow look to them. And if you stared for too long, they turned a shade of blue so dark they appeared black.

My mother’s friends would comment on my looks. They said I was adorable and would be as handsome as my father. I had all of my father’s looks, including my serial killer stare, the same one that terrified most adults. I noticed how people shied away from me. Even as a teenager, girls stared at me, turning away the second I looked at them.

The girls at Astor Prep and then Harvard University begged for my cock. But they were terrified of me. I frightened everyone, and I thrived off their fear. It excited me. A chill would rush down my spine, my skin tingling as I sought my next victim. Like a vampire consumed by bloodlust, I fed off their biggest fears and exposed their greatest desires.

My demons always wanted to play, but Marcello was different, untainted by evil. When we were kids, he stole all of my parents’ attention. I’d hated him so much I wanted him gone. I had dreamed of all the ways I would kill him to have my parents to myself. And by the time I was five years old, I tried to suffocate him.

I slipped through the halls of my estate, careful not to make a sound, gripping the Spider-Man pillow in my tiny hands. There wasn’t a single bit of hesitation in my footsteps. My breathing was even and controlled. I committed to my mission, and nothing would stop me.

Marcello’s bedroom was down the hall from mine. I pushed Marcello’s door open and stood in the entryway with a grin. He was napping in his bed, snoring as I approached him. A humidifier blew a mist across the room.

Even with the curtains drawn, I smelled the saltiness of the sea. The scent of the bay permeated every inch of this house. My clothes, even my hair and skin, smelled like salt. I could alwayscatch the faintest hint and loved it. When I gazed at the bay, I felt a sense of calm wash over me. It helped quell the rage inside me.

I stood beside my brother’s bed with the pillow in my hand. “Wake up, Marcello.”

He was sound asleep, dead to the world.

I flicked his cheek with my finger. “Time to wake up.”

He groaned, and then his eyes fluttered as they met mine.

“She’s not your mom.” I hovered over him with the pillow. “She’s mine.”

Marcello squirmed as he tried to get up from the mattress, but I pushed him down, holding him with all my strength.

“Luca,” he cried, swatting at my hands.

I lowered the pillow over his face. “Shut up.”

He screamed for my parents.

“Brother,” he whined in that stupid childish voice. “Brother…”

For a moment, I hesitated, as if hearing the word brother triggered something inside me. And that brief pause saved his life.

My mother shouted behind me. Something hit the floor with a thud, and I dropped the pillow. I spun around, staring at my mother.

She had tears in her eyes, her body trembling with fear. “Luca, what are you doing to Marcello?”

“I was…”

I was going to kill him.

Juice spilled on the floor around her expensive heels. She yelled for my dad, her shrill voice sounding like nails running down a chalkboard.

“Figlio del diavolo,” my mother whispered, her eyes widening as they landed on me.

I was too young to understand her, but I’d never forgotten the words. In Italian, it meant son of the Devil. Her precious angel sat on his bed while I stared at her with my usual dead expression. I loved my mother more than anything in this world.

But sometimes, I felt it.

I knew I scared her, too.

My father's dress shoes pounded the Brazilian walnut floor. He stopped in the doorway, his intense gaze sweeping over the room. His eyes fell to the juice on the floor, then to me.

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