Deviant Prince [Romano Brotherhood, #2]

11 | Massimo

21 years ago
The Romano Mansion; Chicago.

"Shh. He's asleep."

A quiet babble.

"What did I just say, Tommo?" Santo's bossy whisper floats to me from the distance. "Ugh, whatever. You can't even understand me. You're a baby. Useless."

Like bobbing to the surface of some thick, inky pool, I take my first breath of reality. My surroundings bleed into bleary focus, and with it the sight of my brothers' silhouettes at the entrance of my room. Santo hoists our baby brother determinedly on one hip. He's small enough himself that it's a challenge, but persists with a stubborn determination even as Tommaso slips haphazardly down his body every few seconds.

"Oh, you're awake. Good. Mamma and Papa are fighting. Can we come in here?"

I sit up, rubbing my eyes until it feels like my brain is mashed back into working order. Now a reflex to waking up, immediate anxiety flutters between my ribs. I don't know what time or day it is, how long I've been sleeping, or what's been happening since I've been out. It's been like this since I got back from Hope Valley.

Santo busies himself settling our baby brother on the floor and handing him a toy. In the month and some days I was gone, Tommaso has grown more than I thought a baby could. He's already starting to look like he belongs in this family with his shock of dark hair and matching eyes.

Sometimes, it seems like he's the one good thing in this house. His constant smiling and happy blabbering feel out of place, but it won't be long until that's gone. I can't remember the last time I saw Santo laugh but it must've been when he was a baby. 

With a mighty squeal, Tommaso rears back and slaps Santo in the face with his toy. 

Santo's eyes bulge and he turns to me, a question practically bursting from his face. I shake my head, and his jaw drops in indignation. "But Mo—"

"No. I said when he's older."

Santo's lip curls in disgust, and he shoots our baby brother a death glare. "Hear that? Just a few more years and I'm kicking your damn ass."

Carefully, I test out my legs. It normally takes me several minutes to be able to stand. Santo watches me and it makes me uncomfortable, but he doesn't look like he's scared of me. "It's been four days this time," he says. "You probably don't remember but you woke up a few times and I gave you some water. And some food."

Four days. Four days I was locked in my head. I wonder if I'll ever escape this oppressive shadow that follows me around. It's beginning to look and taste familiar. Like red roses and the smell of cigarettes. Like the feeling of her voice in the middle of all the pain. 

"It's okay, my little prince. It's all going to be okay."

Sometimes I think I hear her when I'm awake, too. 

"Mamma is mad that Papa sent you away," Santo continues. "I don't want him to be mean to her, Mo."

Weakness, exhaustion, and malnourishment almost capsize me when I stand. Now that I'm more awake, I can hear the noise from downstairs. The raised voice—his. The muffled crying—hers.

"We'll stay in here," Santo says dutifully as I slip out the door. He knows how this goes. 

When I get downstairs, they don't see me. I get a glass and fill it at the sink. Still, they don't see me. And I wonder if I'm a ghost, if I ever really came back from Hope Valley at all. Santo is the only person who makes me feel like I'm real these days—he sees me. He talks to me like he always has. And he doesn't stop even if I never respond.