Chapter One

Maeve

“I should have known you would be here!”

Justina’s voice is stern as she chastises me. I know that when I look up from the fashion magazine that I’ve been indulging in for the past hour, I will see her leering at me from the doorway with that specific disapproving look of hers that she seems to reserve only for me. She’s also going to see the large oatmeal raisin cookie I am shoving into my mouth and trying to swallow as quickly as possible, hoping she won’t notice it.

A foolish endeavor, I will admit that, but I’m try it anyway.

I swallow it in one greedy gulp and nearly choke on it before I sheepishly lower the magazine so that it covers half of my face. “Good afternoon to you, Mrs. Justina.”

She doesn’t like my bright smile or upbeat attitude at all. Her lips purse sternly as she folds her arms across her chest. I know she’s waiting for me to jump to my feet and rush off in the direction of whatever work she thinks has yet to be done. However, my shift is almost over and I’m more than efficient. She knows that.

“I do not appreciate staff lounging about on the master’s couch, much less indulging in his private property!” Justina continues.

She’s talking to me like I haven’t spent most of my life inside of this house in one capacity or another. I sigh and snap the magazine closed. “I have already finished all of my chores. Including polishing the banisters you mentioned yesterday afternoon. And I’m allowed to take breaks. Plus, Ada doesn’t care if I read her magazines.”

As I get up to return the magazine to its original spot on the coffee table, traitorous crumbs tumble out of my apron and land all over the plush carpet.
Justina looks like she might blow actual steam right out of her ears. My face burns. I hurriedly bend over to begin tidying up the mess I unintentionally created, feeling the heat radiating down my neck.

“This is what I am talking about! Once again, you’re not in your uniform and you’re creating messes. I still think your mother’s old apron is better than the monstrosity you made for yourself.”

She’s gaining speed and we will both be standing here with her lecturing me for the remainder of our shift if I don’t stop her rant before it gets any worse. We’ll even risk doing overtime, and Justina hates overtime more than anything.

“How about I do the basement for you? As penance?” I offer hastily. I hate the basement. It’s a mostly finished space but it still gives me horror movie vibes. The kind of foolish paranoia that makes me want to bolt upstairs lest something grab my ankle.

But, in terms of cleaning labor, it’s mostly just dusting all of the canned goods that Mrs. Dominio likes to keep down there in case of snow storms or bad weather. She hasn’t been doing nearly as much baking since her husband passed. She’s likely still in bed right now. I can’t say I blame her. I’ve never been anywhere close to getting married before but I grew up seeing the love that the Dominios had for one another and I can’t even fathom her loss.

If nothing else, my offering to clean up the basement that Justina’s been whining about for over a week now means that I can likely clean and read at my own pace before leaving for the day.

Justina is clearly thinking about my offer. She doesn’t want to do it, and I know it. We both know that she would have me do it in any case.

“Fine. But be quick about it,” she finally concedes.

I spring up from the couch and kiss her on her leathery cheek. “I will!”

Oh, I probably just laid it on too thick. She’s going to question why I’m being so nice to her. I drop back down on my heels and quickly scurry from the room before she notices that the magazines have suddenly gone missing.

I think that all of my fondest memories from childhood are wrapped around fashion and my mother. I know that most people would consider these magazines to be a waste of time, but fashion has been my dream for far longer than I can even remember.

We didn’t have a lot of money growing up and my mom made most of my clothes. She taught me everything that I know. Justina complains about the apron that I’ve customized, but I know she only half means it. Just like she’s never going to complain about me wearing my mom’s apron.

Justina’s one of the few staff left in the Dominio estate who actually knew my mother. Loved her like the daughter she never had. Even tough love is the only way Justina knows how to express her affection, sometimes she flatters me by telling me how much I remind her of my mother. Even if we look nothing alike.

My mother could have held her own in any magazine I’ve ever seen. She was shorter, more voluptuous, and breathtakingly beautiful. Blonde hair, gorgeous skin, high cheekbones and wonderful, vivid, green eyes.

Comparing myself to her, I’ve always felt like an alien. Muddy brown eyes, lanky features, and red hair that’s just too brassy for my taste. If they weren’t so freckled, my long legs would be great. I always wanted to look like my mother rather than a dead father who could never be bothered with us, but my mom always urged me not to be so hard on myself about my “angel kisses,” as she liked to call them.

I think that if I had a child who looked like the person who broke my heart, I would not have been able to love them half as much as my mother loved me. And she did. Even now, with her being gone for so many years, I can still feel her love.

My mother wanted so much more for me than what she had. I never saw anything wrong with the way we grew up except for in my weaker moments, when I compared my life to that of family that owned the house that she worked in. The same house that I now work in to save up enough money to go to fashion school.

I know that I have the talent, it’s just a matter of timing and opportunity.

Magazines are just as important as any other study material. I have to keep on track with current trends and fabrics; the fashion industry moves so quickly that it’s basically deadly to fall behind. Another reason I’m happy that my boss, Cristiano Dominio, who is almost like a brother to me, an obnoxious and hot brother, doesn’t make us wear uniforms except for an apron.

My mother’s apron is a mostly plain, beige-colored frock with her initials lovingly embroidered in white and silver stitching toward the bottom hemline. It’s the only thing that I really have left of her. She never believed much in material objects beyond what she could create and I keep it fastidiously clean at all times.

Underneath that, I wear a fairly simple white t-shirt tucked into bright red jeans that fit like a second skin that moves effortlessly and stretches in all the right places, making it easier for me to clean spots that are hard to reach. Paired with sneakers, which make my life even easier. It may not be the most fashionable option, but no one can deny how much I love my colorful touches.

The walk to the basement access is mostly silent. If I hadn’t grown up alongside Ada, Cristiano’s younger sister, while being chased around by him in these very halls, I would easily say this mansion was creepy.

It is quite formal, but then again, his grandparents designed it. A family compound.

I still don’t know exactly what the Dominio family does, but they have always been kind to me so I don’t ask questions. It’s not my business.

I reach the door and fumble for the basement key, tucking a strand of chin-length red hair behind my ear. Justina is the only person with a skeleton key. For the rest of us, there are doors that we can access using our security badges in addition to a few conventional keys. The fact that they don’t just choose a medium and stick with it is another strange thing. However, they pay me enough not to ask obvious questions.

Some doors in this place are still off-limits, even to me.

I unlock the door and am met with voices. Nobody should be in the basement. Other than Annalisa, Mrs. Dominio, who is unlikely to leave her bedroom anytime soon, I don’t think anyone else is home. Who could it be? Nobody could have broken in here since the Dominios have more private protection on their compound than even Jesus Christ would have.

I shouldn’t spy. I know it’s wrong and yet I find myself leaning in anyway.

If something is going on down there, it’s for a very good reason, and I should get out of the way until it’s over. Actually, going to hide in the bathroom for an hour or two to finish reading my magazine would make great sense. It would be the perfect excuse. There is a common understanding that when Dominio business is underway, one must become invisible.

I take half a step back from the door, silently cursing my shoe for daring to squeak at a moment like this and close the door again.

I’m holding the key that is inside the lock. Lock it and go; that’s the only sensible choice. But I have to leave here early today. It’s not like dusting will take a long, right? I can always just slip in and out. I can work around them. There’s no way Cristiano will get upset with me, and even if he did, it won’t last more than a minute or two. He’s far too nice of a guy.

He knows I have to work.

Right?

I’m sure it’s fine.

Since the meeting is being held in the basement, it doesn’t take me long to come to the conclusion that it is probably not of significance. I have sketches waiting for me. Important sketches. I still have a few days till the scholarship application deadline, but I need to make a good impression.

Yes. That’s what I’m going to tell him if he asks me why I’m puttering about during his meeting.

I straighten my back, tuck the basement key back into my apron, and silently push the door open again. I casually saunter down into the basement, holding my bucket of cleaning supplies in one hand and a pair of clean dusting cloths in another. With actual dedication, it will just take fifteen minutes.

But then, my shoe slips.

Of course, it does.

One moment I’m confidently strolling down the stairs towards what promises to be an uncomfortable fifteen minutes of work and then the next I’m falling ass over face down to the basement. My bucket of cleaning supplies flies out of my hands and clatters somewhere, leaving the scent of pine cleaner everywhere in the air. My body batters and the air is knocked out of me.

The voices in the basement are silent now.

I can feel the eyes in the room on me. All of them. Before even looking at them, I’m trying to take stock of my situation to see if I have any fractured bones. However, except for a few bruises, I believe I’m alright.

With a shy, apologetic grin that I hope he finds endearing, I turn to look for Cristiano’s eye, only to be greeted with an entirely other scene.

It’s not a meeting.

Well, not what I would call one.

There’s a bloodied and beaten man tied to a chair in the center of the room. The concrete floor is soaked and the metallic scent starts to mix with the pine in a way that makes me think I’m never going to be able to polish floors with that cleaner ever again.

It seems like the man is only two hits away from death. Men who I had assumed to be merely members of Cristiano’s staff are behind him, followed by the man himself.

The charming boy next door that I grew up with is no longer there.

Instead, something else has consumed him. A darkness in his eyes makes me shudder right to my very core. He looks like another person entirely. His face is covered in blood, his hands are swollen, his knuckles bruised, the skin torn. He has tortured that man.

Cristiano. Torturing. He has a knife in his hand, poised directly in front of that man’s open eyeball. If the man so much as inhales too sharply, he will lose his eye.

I must have hit my head way harder than I thought that I had.

The scream starts to build in my chest.

Instead, words come out.

“I’m so not cleaning that…”

Chapter Two

Cristiano

Rage consumes me.

It’s an all-encompassing inferno that has no boundaries and no ends. Just fire; fire everywhere.

I’ve spent my whole life keeping my temper in check. I’ve put in a lot of effort to stay true to my values and goals. I’ve evolved into two flawless versions of the same person, both dark and light. Two distinct halves of the same coin. The public version of me is the ideal brother and community activist. The one who effortlessly supports his family in any situation. The ever-dependable and impeccably poised gentleman.

And then there’s this version.

One doesn’t exist without the other.

I need this side to balance out the other. Without it, I think the perfect version of myself would snap and shatter into a million pieces. Very, very rarely do the two sides happen to see eye to eye. But, at this perfectly harmonious moment, we both want the very same thing. Mostly to make this sorry bastard choke on his own breath.

This Irish bastard is standing in my way and he knows it. The only reason that I haven’t cut the tongue in his otherwise useless mouth is because he has information that I desperately need.

However, that has nothing to do with his teeth. This morning, he had a nice, full set that is now rapidly dwindling into nothing. If he doesn’t get smart soon, he’s going to be a pulpy mess. However, it’s possible that he may enjoy choking on his own teeth when I jam them down his miserable throat.

He will tell me what I want to know before we are done, and only then will I allow him the mercy of death.

This man played a part in my father’s murder. A big part. He only needs to give me the name of who he reports to and then I can end his life. I’m not going to pretend that I won’t deeply enjoy it.

It’s only been a week since my father died. The shock of his loss is still fresh, a festering wound in my chest. It will stay that way for a long time. The man was my hero, my idol. It doesn’t matter that I never really cared for the violent lifestyle that he led, he still was my father.

I know it is naive but, in my eyes, my father was always practically invincible.

And now he’s gone.

Taken before his time by these low-life bastards.

And for what? To weaken us? Did they not think that by cutting off the head, two more would grow in its place? They severely underestimated the strength of my father’s clan. Of my clan. I was born to lead these people. I effortlessly stepped into a role that I had been groomed for since I could walk. The might of my father’s empire wants blood for what was taken from them and I will deliver it, in spades.

The jerk in front of me has been a faithful servant of the Doyle family for more than thirty years. I have him and the Doyles know it. I, on the other hand, know that they won’t attack me in my own house to get him. They will let him fall while they figure out what to do next. They never did reward loyalty. He picked the wrong fucking side.

“Please…” the man sighs. It’s mostly just a flap of his swollen mouth but I understand him all the same. There will be no mercy for him. None was given to my father.

“What was that?” I bend at the waist, cupping a bloodied hand around my ear. A syrupy sweet smile is plastered on my face as I wait eagerly for his answer.

“Pl…” the man inhales, like the effort of speaking is just too much for him to function. Perhaps it is. Perhaps he truly cannot manage to force air into his chest properly given that his ribs have been damaged. Or, perhaps one of those teeth scraped something important on the way down. I cannot feel empathy towards him. Every time I think that my mask of brutality might slip, I hear my mother’s desperate screams as they lowered my father’s coffin into the ground. We could only bury what was left of him. Barely enough for her to say goodbye to and certainly not enough to get closure from.

My mother had practically collapsed. Keeping her upright had required all of my strength. Even my sister wept. I cannot recall her displaying any emotion at all other than when she hangs out with Maeve.

There’s been no time for me to grieve. Not a single moment to process any emotion other than the all-consuming rage that has powered me from the inside out since it happened.

The bastards are feeling proud of themselves right now for doing this to my family, but I’m going to make them pay for it.

Alberto, who everybody has always called Al, is standing to my right with black leather gloves on, arms folded over his chest as he watches me work. He’s a simple man. Cut and dry. Black and white. He was the logical choice for me to elevate as my underboss and right-hand man last week. Which is actually saying something because he’s always been a little more off on violence than I am. We have experienced a great deal together, and he shares my need for justice.

“Perhaps I’m not making myself clear,” I say as I pull my knife from my back pocket. “Or, perhaps you simply don’t understand the situation that you’re in. You will die. You know that. It’s all a matter of how many days I’m going to drag it out for. If you’re going to choose to be a good little boy and give me enough information to reward you with a quick death.”

I grab hold of the man’s shoulder and lean forward, the saccharine smile never leaving my face for a moment.

The tip of the knife forces his eyelid open as he strains to lean further back into the chair as if there’s anywhere for him to go.

“Were the teeth not enough? Should I go for something a little bit more vital?”

The man is blubbering and blustering and attempting to get away as carefully as possible.

“I suggest that you stop squirming, you wouldn’t want me to slip,” I taunt him.

I grab his forehead, grasp him by his bloody hair, when a body literally falls down the stairs.

Who the hell has the audacity to disturb me?

It takes half a moment longer to recognize the tangle of limbs and stunning red hair before me.

Maeve.

“I’m so not cleaning that…” I hear her mumble.

What the hell is she doing in my basement? One, the staff all know better than to come down here when the door is locked. And two, there’s no way now to stop her from seeing the truth that I, and my whole family, have kept from her her entire life.

It’s like a horror movie. In slow motion.

My instincts scream at me to go over there and help her up, to make sure that she’s unharmed but my feet won’t move. I have blood on my shoes. I have blood on my hands, and likely splattered on my face and clothes. There’s no hiding that.

All I can do is tell Al that he needs to put the gun pointing at her away.

Fuck.

She’s seen everything, there’s no escaping it. And that’s something I didn’t need on my plate right now.

When she lifts herself off the ground and turns to face us, I try to train my features into something impartial and cold. Before I can even put away the knife I am holding, the fucking coward on the chair starts screaming for her help.

“Please! Help! Please! Help me! You have to get me out of here! Please! Let me out!” He blubbers, tears running down his face. I can’t even tell if they are real or performative at this point.

She hasn’t looked at me yet.

Good.

Because I don’t think I could stand the look of disgust in her eyes, or whatever else I might see reflected there.

I should have had guards posted at the door. It was a foolish mistake that might now cost me everything.

Historically speaking, the easiest way to handle situations where people see something about the mob that they shouldn’t be seeing is for them to simply… die.

But I cannot kill my little sister’s best friend.

She looks paralyzed by the situation that she’s gotten herself into.

“Take Miss Cunningham to her room, please,” I order Al in a tight, clipped tone.

Al moves silently to carry out my orders but stops only a moment later as the worm in the chair speaks.

“Cunningham?” He mutters, voice oily.

I can see him looking at her. I should pluck his eyes out. His gaze lands on the apron she’s wearing and the embroidered initials of her mother in the bottom corner.

“You are much younger… you don’t… you can’t be…” His eyes start to widen, assuming who the woman in the room with us might actually be. I can see him moving through the pieces, sorting them out in his mind as he comes to the conclusion that I didn’t want him to come to.

He’s thinking about how familiar she looks. How that shockingly perfect red hair might somehow be familiar to him in ways that I don’t want it to be. I don’t want him looking at her because now she’s going to ask even more questions that I cannot answer. None of the answers that she’s going to demand from me later are going to give her any satisfaction.

This bastard is going to die with his suspicions in his head and that’s a simple enough solution for all of us to reach. But Maeve… fuck, why did she have to come down here?

“It was just a rumor…” he mumbles.

He’s going to lose his tongue too.

“What rumor?” Maeve asks. I feel a knot of dread form in my stomach as she resists Al’s grip. She tries to pull away from him even as he’s dragging her toward the staircase and up into her room .

I can’t let this go on. I have no other choice.

I spin the knife in my hand and plunge it deep into the sorry bastard’s throat. His eyes widen in surprise and the gurgle of his own blood instantly swallows anything else that he might have chosen to say.

I hate that I have to let my current lead go, but he wasn’t going to give me much more that I didn’t already know in the first place.

Maeve screams.

Not only from the terror of witnessing a man die in front of her eyes but also from frustration. I know her like the back of my hand. I can tell the difference.

“Get her out of here,” I command Al as I start to clean my blade.

“What rumors? Cristiano, what rumors? What are you doing, let go of me!” She screams as he starts to haul her up the stairs. He’s going to have to throw her over his shoulder to get her the fuck out of here at this rate. “What did he mean!? Cristiano!”

I can’t answer her.

“Put her in my room,” I order Al as he indeed bends to scoop her up into his arms. “And make sure that she stays there. I can’t have her getting into any more damned trouble.”

Now, instead of one mess I have to clean up, I have two.

Chapter Three

Maeve

When was the last time I was in Cristiano’s bedroom? I can’t recall. I remember being much younger and watching Ada sneak in and out of this room like it was nothing. Thinking back, I never went with her. I had a sneaking suspicion that he might be hiding secrets here. Now that I’m older and looking around the room, it seems silly. Maybe it was just that I always associated a certain amount of authority with him since he was older than me and a boy.

The bedroom is sparsely decorated. It feels like it cannot actually be his room.

The few times I walked past, I clearly remember seeing sports and boxing trophies up on a shelf. The main feature of the room is now a big bed with luxurious bedding in a deep green color that almost looks black. There is art above the headboard, but it seems abstract and colorless to me. A dresser with a box full of watches resting on top, each in a glass-hinged cubby with a velvet-lined interior. A bottle of cologne that I refuse to smell.

As tempting as it is to rifle through his drawers, I refrain.

The closet is the same, unassuming and almost plain-looking. A black leather couch rests against one of the walls, and there is a bare small table in front of it. If I’m being perfectly honest, it doesn’t even look like he spends any time in here at all. This is not a room meant for relaxation. This is a rest stop for sleep and it looks like very little else.

Cold.

Not a word that I would have ever associated with Cristiano before today.

The minutes pass slowly. I explore the ensuite bathroom and the lack of trinkets in there.

It could be a hotel room.

There has to be some sort of secret for me to find in here. There’s got to be a reason that only the housekeeper is allowed access.

My search is over in the first five minutes. Nothing.

I make a futile attempt to count the seconds if only to contain my seething anger. I get distracted and immediately think of what the man in the basement said. Right before Cristiano killed him. Killed him! The man I’ve basically grown up next to… A murderer.

It’s too much.

It’s like my world is being forcibly expanded far too quickly and I can’t keep up. My worldview is ripping at the seams and fraying apart.

I cling to the knowledge that the now-dead man knew my mother.

I sink awkwardly onto the foot of Cristiano’s bed.

I untie my apron and hold it carefully in my hands. It’s still covered in blood. Even the embroidered initials have red flecks on them. I have no idea how I’m going to get it out of the fine thread. My thumbs brush over the stitching reverently. It… it’s ruined. There’s some stranger’s blood all over it.

Tears well in my eyes, blurring my vision before I can properly blink them back. I’ll never be able to get this piece of her back. But I can’t waste my time crying right now. I wish my mother was here. She always knew what to do. No matter the situation. Even now that I’m all grown up, I still wish she was here to help me.

I’ve always loved the Dominio family. There’s no denying how good they have been to me. Ada, Cristano’s younger sister, is my best friend in the whole world. With that, has come some understanding that her family’s life and business are not my business. I have no idea what they do to make their riches. I have always known that it’s illegal, I just didn’t think murder was the order of the day.

Ada has to know.

Everybody has been keeping this from me. Am I a fool? Too naive? Have I been so single-mindedly focused on my dreams for my future that I was blind to everything else?

I summon the image of Cristiano in my mind. The sweet-faced boy next door type who has always been just a few too many degrees hot to be considered brotherly. Annoying, yes. Platonic? Sort of. Then, beside it, swims the vision of him with a feral rage on his face and his olive skin flecked with blood. He enjoyed killing that man. I saw it.

I cannot put the two images together.

They are two wholly different people.

The question that I have to answer is: which one is the real him?

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