Deviant Prince [Romano Brotherhood, #2]

Prologue

20 years ago
The office of Dr. Amanda Erikson. 

"You're sure there's nothing wrong with him?" My father paces up and down the cramped office, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

The doctor clears her throat nervously. "We've run an extensive number of tests, Mr. Romano. Considering... everything," she cuts me a half grimace, half smile, "he seems to be in perfectly healthy condition."

Papa heaves a frustrated sigh, stopping his pacing to stare at me. "No, no, no," he mutters, going right back to it, "he's all wrong. All fucking wrong." I startle a little, my hand twitching in my lap. He only curses when he's very mad. "There must be something you can do."

"Like what exactly?" Dr. Erikson's voice wobbles in barely concealed nerves. Papa is frightening when he wants to be. "With all due respect, sir, he's eight years old. And he's been through a lo—"

"Tell me he's normal," my father snaps, bracing his hands on her desk and leaning intimidatingly into her space. He jerks his chin at me, and the doctor reluctantly but obediently meets my gaze. "Tell me that's normal."

I tilt my head, returning her scrutiny. She looks away abruptly. 

"There's something wrong with his eyes," he shudders. He keeps his distance, I notice, hovering a little closer but always keeping the coffee table between us. "And he doesn't speak much. He's practically mute. Sometimes I can't even tell if he's aware of the things around him." He snaps his fingers in my face. "See?"

I belatedly drag my gaze to him and he curses, retreating several steps. I disgust him now. My father, the man who practically runs Chicago, scared of his eight year old son.

Ever since I came back, it's been this way.

Dr. Erikson is quick to assure him that I'm fine, there's nothing wrong with me, and at most I'm suffering residual trauma. My father refuses to accept her words, continually stating it's not fucking trauma, trauma wouldn't turn him into this until the doctor sends him outside so she can conduct a solo checkup with me to conclude the appointment. 

After a moment's thought, she sits carefully on the couch next to me. Her smile is overly encouraging to mask her nervousness.

"Well, Massimo? How are you feeling? You can tell me anything, okay? If you don't want your father to know something, it will stay between the two of us."

I frown at the way she speaks, all slow and drawn out as if I'm mentally inept. 

One second she's wearing that pathetic smile, her pen poised expectantly over her notepad. The next, there's a dark line across her neck, just under her jaw, spreading from one side to the other. Blood bubbles heavily from it, gushing like a waterfall down the front of her dress.

She stares at me for a second, shock written in the whites of her eyes. Her hand grapples with her throat, but the blood spurts between her fingers and all over my clothes. She dies quickly as I watch. Eventually, her body slumps to the floor, drained of all life.

I'm holding a small blade. I recognize it. It's one of my father's that he keeps in his desk drawer at home. I just don't know how it got here. 

Papa chooses that moment to burst back in, clearly fresh out of patience. Seeing me and the mess, he freezes. His face pales and he utters a prayer in Italian. Burying his head in his hands, he takes a moment to collect himself. Then his strides are eating up the small space.

He grabs my shoulder roughly, dragging me to my feet. His hand fumbles at his waistline and emerges with a gun. Holding me in place, he taps it neurotically against his thigh. One, two, three, four, five. Considering what to do to me.