Page 136 of He Should Be Mine
Relief flows over Dario’s face. Intense. Profound.
“That’s it. Good boy.”
My shoulders bristle. But wait. It’s no longer a taunt and a tease. It’s now true.
I am his boy. Rick is dead. I’m Dario’s boy.
He steers me over to the sofa and sits me down. The cushions are soft. Another familiar thing. The world has not completely changed. Some things are the same.
“I’m going to get you a drink. Don’t look.”
Dario steps towards the drinks cabinet in the tacky fake bar.
“I want tea!” I splutter.
He turns to me with a raised eyebrow. “Tea?”
“I’m British, alright? We have tea in a crisis!”
A ghost of a smile tugs at his lips. “As you wish.”
He moves towards the kitchen. Towards the breakfast bar. He pauses. He picks up the TV remote and turns the football on.
“Molly, look at the TV. Nothing else. Look at the TV and count to fifty.”
I nod and obediently begin counting to fifty in my head. It is strangely soothing.
I reach fifty and immediately turn my head, seeking Dario. I see him straight away, in the kitchen, making tea.
There is a blanket covered lump sprawled half in the hallway. Thankfully, it’s not my blanket. It’s not the one that Dario gave me and that I hug every night because it smells of him.
My gaze tracks upwards. There are black bin bags taped to the wall.
I gulp and look back at the TV.
Dario strides over with our biggest mug. It is sloshing with milky tea. Perfect. I shove Pooh Bear under my armpit and take the mug from him with trembling fingers.
He sits down on the sofa beside me. Right beside me. In the spot we always had to leave empty before.
“Are they going to kill us?” I ask. My voice sounds strange. Leeched of all emotion.
“No,” Dario says forcefully. “I’m a little premature, but I have been planning this.”
“Planning what?”
I don’t understand how any of this could have been on purpose. It just doesn’t make any sense at all.
Dario’s dark eyes flash. “Killing Riccardo. Being named heir. Making you mine.”
The room spins. “It works like that?”
He shrugs. “If you are the Don’s bastard son.”
I stare at him. I’m floundering here. It feels like the rules of gravity have been changed. I no longer know which way round things go.
“Rick… is your half-brother?” Saying it feels ludicrous.
Then another very important fact hits me. “Was… was your half-brother,” I amend.
