Zoe And The Beast

Prologue

A dark haired boy stepped onto the curb of the sidewalk, rain dripping heavily over his face. His hands were tucked into his black jacket's pockets, his head hung low. At the age of thirteen, his only goal was to get home before it became dark outside, and before he caused his mother to worry.

A loud gunshot was audible somewhere in the background, causing the teenager to flinch. Although he had heard the sound multiple times, it never failed to shock him.

His vigilant eyes scanned his neighborhood for danger before he hurried toward his apartment, trying not to draw any unwanted attention. Even at such a young age, though, his beautiful face rarely went unnoticed. Along with dark hair and a strong jawline, he had prominent cheekbones and agile hazel eyes; all stunning traits that he had received from his mother.

Two adults eyed him from a corner warily, before returning to their cigarettes.

Puffing out a cloud of smoke, one of them called him out. "Yo, Vince."

The boy immediately stopped in his tracks and turned to them, balling his hands into fists beneath his jacket cautiously. "Yeah?"

"Your pop was in the news again. He got big investments or somethin'. You might wanna check it out."

Instantaneously, a scowl appeared across Vince's face. The boy breathed out an irritated gust of air before he spoke through his teeth. "I don't want to check out anything that has to do with my father."

"You sure 'bout that?"

"I'm positive." Vince began shuffling back to his apartment, trying his best not to think about his biological father, who meant next to nothing to him.

"Why?" The other man taunted him, an eerie grin appearing across his face. "'Cause he's rich and you're poor? Or 'cause he knocked up your ma and then left the whore for dead?" The men both snorted, laughing.

Vince snarled silently at the ground, fighting the urge to turn around and rip them to pieces. It wasn't the first time anyone had called his mother something insulting in front of him. The last time someone had, however, he had done his best to fight against them and had received three broken bones and a bloody jaw in the process, along with a devastated scolding. His mother had explained to him that people would always try to tease him, and that he should ignore them and leave it at that.

Instead of putting up a fight like the men wanted, the teenager sent them a bleak glare over his shoulder, and then tore to his apartment. When he entered, his eyes widened.

The furniture was strewed apart, upside down, pillows scattered across the floor. The curtains were tattered across the window, and the drawers were frayed and clearly tampered with. Vince knew that his mother had a bad habit of frantically searching through the house whenever she couldn't find something valuable, but she never went far enough to pull down the curtains. Vince's eyes narrowed suspiciously as he glanced around, stepping through the room cagily.

"Mamma?" he called, taking off his jacket. Switching between Italian and English, he tried to look for his mother. "Va tutto bene? Were you looking for something?"

When he received no response, he headed toward the small kitchen, expecting her to be concentrating on cooking something new. Instead, he found the kitchen wrecked like the living room, a large pan set on fire.

"Gesù Cristo," he cursed at the fire, heading toward the fire extinguisher. "Mamma, you need to be more careful."

After blowing down the small flames, he called for his mother again, concerned this time. By now, she would have replied and come rushing to him, telling him that she didn't mean to burn the food or not hear him. She'd give him a kiss on the cheek and tell him to sit down and try her new Italian Brovada or Sarde in saor , and then tell him exciting stories about the first time she had ever tried the dish, while he happily plowed through the food.

But today, she hadn't. She wasn't in the living room or kitchen like she usually would be. Worried, Vince began toward her room, hurrying there.

"Mamma?" he asked again, his forehead wrinkling, panic threatening to blast out of him. "Mamma, please don't play games. Where are you? Come on, Mamma, tell me where you are."

There was no return of acknowledgement.

"Mamma?" His plea was much more like a holler this time, as he raced through his small apartment, and rapped against her door. "Mamma, open the door. Mamma, apri la porta!"

When nothing happened, he tried turning the doorknob, but it wouldn't budge. With his heart rushing in anxiety, he grabbed the first chair he could find and smashed it against the door, causing the door to break off its hinges. As soon as it fell, Vince stepped into the room and glared around, his breathing becoming unsteady.

The moment his eyes focused on a small body curled on the cold wooden floor, his mind went haywire. Terror pumped through him, anxiety wired around him, and fear tantalized him forward, rushing him to kneel down beside her.

"Mamma," he blindly shook her, his fingers trembling against her clammy skin. "Mamma, wake up."

When she didn't respond, his heart pounced against his chest, and he shook her violently, faith dying out. "Mamma, svegliati! Come on, Mamma, wake up!"

He tried to turn her, but then stopped the instant his fingers felt something wet against her. Fighting for his self-assurance, he deliberately looked down, trying to keep his breath going.

Gleaming red liquid clung to his fingers, fresh and clean. He rubbed it lightly, then sniffed it. It had the smell of blood.

Holding his breath, he turned her to face him. Tears pricked against his eyes, as he hysterically pulled her scarf down, away from her neck. A sharp gasp escaped his lips, a sob from his chest.

Vince's blood ran cold, draining all means of hope out of him. A large black hole sat at the base of her chest, blood oozing out of it. A bullet sat in the center of it, as if it were the devil himself. Her eyes were shut, her lips gently turned down in a frown. Her delicate features were distressed and troubled.

Her pulse was still.

His face broke into agony as he stared at the wound, undeniably shocked. His heart wouldn't pump, his body wouldn't move. His scream was piercing and tortured, tormented and lacerated, broken and shattered.

"Mamma!"