Deviant Prince [Romano Brotherhood, #2]

22 | Massimo

19 years ago
The Romano Mansion; Chicago

At some point, I realize I can't count the days anymore.

They all run together in a sick blur until it's been days, weeks, months, maybe even a year that I spent somewhere in my head while the rest of the world carried on.

I only know a couple things about the day John Solos, head doctor at Hope Valley, retrieved me from my room. I know that everything was normal except for the red roses that had appeared at my bedside the day before. And I know that wherever he took me and whatever he did to me—it changed me forever.

Time passes differently for me now. So much is different. I am different. This hollow cadence in my chest makes it feel like occupying space is just so... strange. Difficult—if I think about it too hard. This house is different, even the seasons. Because sometimes, I open my eyes from a night's sleep and realize much more time has passed. 

It becomes a game I play, where I see what will change the next time I open my eyes. My next blink could encapsulate weeks or more. Will my brothers be adults? Will my family be dead?

What never changes is Santo.

He never makes me feel guilty or blames me when I can't take care of them. He's just always there. He says that when I'm gone in my head I never try to hurt them, and that's a mercy beyond comprehension. Still, I've taken to locking myself in the bathroom to sleep. Because if I did try one day, there would be nothing stopping me.

Despite this, Santo is still there. Letting me know I am still human, breaking up the indiscriminate murkiness with his familiar little scowl and the matter-of-fact way he fills in the gaps for me.

It's strange watching my brothers grow up and realizing that in between blinks, Santo has shot up a few inches. Tommaso has learned how to walk. He knows how to say words now, mostly 'fuck' and 'shit.' Things he picked up from Santo.

One day, I become aware of myself sitting at the kitchen table with a fork in my hands. We're eating spaghetti, Tommaso on Santo's lap as he tears apart a piece of bread and throws the chunks across the room. I hear someone—Mamma, unless she died or something—moving around the kitchen.

Santo is staring at me intently. Leaning forward eagerly, he knows somehow that this is the moment I'm me again. He's gotten good at knowing when I disappear into my head. To anyone else, I seem normal during those periods, perhaps only a little quieter. A little more distracted. But never to him.

My heart restarts its creaky rhythm when I notice the state of my brother. His hair is ragged, too long, almost swallowing up his small face. The smoothness of his skin is broken up by cuts and burns. His eyes look empty.

This is how I know that I've been gone for longer than usual this time.

"It's been three months and seventeen days," he says when he can tell I'm listening, confirming my suspicions. Santo continues, rattling off details like he's been practicing this for exactly three months and seventeen days. "Today is a year since Papa died. Mamma keeps going away still. But I figured out where." Without looking, he expertly steers Tommaso's grabby hands away from his knife. "When she gets drunk, she talks. A lot. She's been visiting Papa's casinos. They know her there, she says. They give her... special treatment. Whatever that is," he rolls his eyes. "It sounds dumb."

I loosen my grip on my utensil, peering around the room. Some items have been rearranged but things are mostly the same. I spot snow through the window, telling me it's winter.

"Do you... remember anything?"

I shake my head and Santo tries not to let me see his disappointment. As always, my memories are like grains of sand crammed in a bottle. I can recall vague things but it's impossible to extract specifics and place them in chronological order. They all mix and meld together, impossible to separate and useless in their current state.