Page 3 of Roque

“And where might that be?”

“The best boarding school in Europe. You can study whatever want. Be whoever you want to be. Few get that chance.”

“Who were you told to be?”

I grimace. “Many things, but the dark truth is Chloe, I’m exactly who I wanted to be.”

“The most powerful man in the world?”

“Hardly, but I’m working on that.”

“I’ve seen how they all look at you.”

“Who?”

“The women. When you took me shopping, they all cooed over me and made a fuss. But it was all fake. All they wanted was dirt on you and if you were single…”

“They all want the power. The money.”

“No, Roque. I might only be fifteen, but I already see it too. They want you, Just you, Your sexy and dark, all broody but cocky. Trust me even nuns would swoon in your presence,”

I wince, “Please, Chloe. Don’t crush on me.”

“As if. That’s gross. You’re what like twice my age?”

“Just about.”

“Don’t worry. I see you as my fairy-god-uncle.”

“Drip the fairy part, squirt and get to bed.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Not until you tell me your story. And hers.”

“It’s not a bedtime story. Our story will only give you nightmares.”

“It won’t. You don’t know what I’ve seen what was done to me.” My fists clench at the thought someone dared to hurt the honey-blonde who barely weights a hundred pounds. “Please?”

“Maybe. Will you go to boarding school and make something of yourself?”

She nods. “Only if you never forget me?”

“As if. I’m your fairy-god-whatever remember?”

She finally hands back my poem and I take her hand, turn on the remote to the gas fireplace and tell her to sit. I cross to the wet bar and make myself a scotch—neat.

“It started years ago… in Italy, Palermo specifically. My family… we were at war with the Fiorelli’s. Both of us wanted more. We were fighting on who would rule the city. We slaughtered each other’s families. Blood for blood. A life for a life. It was before the digital age grew to what it is now. It was easier to cause bloodshed and mayhem then. Not that the police could ever stop the mob when we owned them too.

But to understand my story, you must understand hers. I reach behind the mantle, pulling a lever. A secret cubby emerges where I pick up her words. Her ink isn’t as fresh as mine. I’ve spent too many sleepless nights reading her words over and over and that’s what keeps whatever this was between us alive. Because I stubbornly refused to let it die.

“What’s that?”

“Her notebooks. She kept diaries starting from when she was twelve through high school.”

“Where did you get those?”