Page 1 of Keeping Kasey
CHAPTER ONE
Logan
Age 13
My mother is dead.
Maybe if I repeat those words enough, they’ll mean something to me. So far, no luck.
It’s been three weeks since she was abducted on a lunch outing with my oldest brother, Damon.
Two weeks since we found the family that took her—the Venturis.
One week since they shot her in the head and sent us her body.
I saw it myself—I had to. My father made sure of that. I confronted the brutal reality of my mother’s death by seeing her bloodied, lifeless corpse. By seeing her once-tan skin now ghostly white, her love-filled eyes now empty. My three brothers and I stood over the plastic body bag they sent her in and listened as our father told us that the Venturis were unwilling to negotiate for her life.
They killed her in cold blood for the crime of being married to Gabriel Consoli.
But I suppose that’s the risk you take marrying the boss of one of the five major American Mafia families.
My mother is dead.
Today is her funeral.
It’s barely six in the morning, and I’m seated at the kitchen table with a mug of black coffee in front of me. I hate coffee. It tastes horrible and makes me jittery, but I’ll need the energy today since I sure as hell didn’t get any from sleep.
The manor is quiet, which is a rarity, and it makes the already grim day that much more eerie.
Three weeks ago, it wouldn’t have been quiet. Mom loved early mornings. She’d wake with the sun and go on a walk around the property before getting ready and making breakfast.
Each morning, I wake up knowing she’s gone but still come to the kitchen expecting to see her at the stove humming along to her favorite classical pieces.
My mother is dead.
And the kitchen is empty.
Until the distinct, purposeful thuds against the hardwood floors announce my father’s approach. I don’t turn around when he enters the kitchen, but I hear him stop in the doorway.
“What are you doing up so early?” Gabriel Consoli has a low, rough voice that carries none of the sorrow that one would expect on the day of his wife’s funeral.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
He pauses before crossing the kitchen and pouring a cup of coffee. “Good. Make sure your siblings are up. We’re leaving here at eight.”
Where any other father would ask his kids how they’re doing or if they need anything, my father readily has orders for me.
And I readily accept them.
“Yes, sir.” I leave the lukewarm, half-empty mug on the table and turn to watch my father drink from his mug.
My father, like me, is already in his suit for the funeral. The dark hair he passed to each of his children is slicked back with the precise amount of product to ensure it stays in placewhile looking perfectly natural. His beard is trimmed short, even more so than normal—because looking even the slightest bit disheveled would undermine his authority.
If I expected grief to show on his face, I’m sorely mistaken.
Of course, I didn’t. That’s not who we are.
Consolis are strong. We don’t show weakness.
