Nicoli: Prologue

I lean against my bedroom window, the cold pane of glass chilling my forehead as I stare into the still-dark morning. It’s four a.m., and I’ve been waiting for my dad to come home. Last night, he left in a rush with a harried look on his face, an air of panic following him out the door. Alexius and I both knew something was wrong and decided to stay up until our dad came home, eager to find out what was happening.

I glance at Alexius, sprawled out on my bed, my twin snoring and drooling over my new navy-blue pillow. If this were his room and his bed, I’d pee in his face.

A thick beam of light slices through the darkness in my room, moving along the wall and painting shadows. It’s my father’s car pulling up the driveway with two SUVs following. There’s an instant prickle of warning along the back of my neck as I watch multiple men exit the cars, holding guns in their hands. I’m no stranger to firearms. Not a day goes by that we don’t see at least one weapon in this house. Alexius and I turned thirteen two months ago, and that’s the day our dad allowed us to fire our first shot. A necessary evil, he called it. But the rush I felt when I pulled that trigger was indescribable.

My father gets out of his Lexus, his black coat blending against the night, and he’s saying something to the men. Judging by his stern expression, he’s barking orders at them, and I watch as they all act in one swift motion, holstering their guns and hiding them beneath their jackets.

The hair on my arms rises as chills flow over my skin, and my heart is beating so fast, I’m sure it’s about to ricochet out of my chest. Something’s wrong. I can feel it. I can see it on my dad’s face, and it’s making me anxious.

I jolt when Alexius lets out this loud, hacking snore, and I curse under my breath, trying to swallow my heart back down my throat. Stupid asshole.

A car door slams, and when I look back out the window, there’s this little girl wearing a bright yellow coat standing next to my dad. Her cape is covering her head, and she’s holding it tight around her neck as the winter air whips around her. A boy gets out of the car on the other side, and it takes me a moment before I recognize him. I’ve seen him a few times with his older brother and dad, who is one of my father’s friends. But my dad has never introduced us, as their visits would be brief and behind closed doors. Alexius and I often asked my father why they were allowed to join the meetings and not us.

“I will determine when you’re ready, just as it is their father’s right to determine when they are. And right now, you are not ready.”

It pissed us off to see them enter and leave our dad’s office, knowing that they knew more about what goes on around here than we do.

My shoulders square as I watch the boy round the car, and the little girl rushes over to him, wrapping her short arms around his leg and clinging to him like the wind is about to sweep her away. He pulls her close, and it’s obvious she trusts him. She’s so tiny compared to him.

The boy places an arm around her shoulders as if shielding her from the world. I wonder if that could be his sister. And where is his older brother?

I’m about to wake Alexius when the girl looks up straight at me. It’s too dark to see the color of her eyes, but I can see she’s sad. Really, really sad. And she’s scared too. I have no idea how I know this. I just do. Everything about the scene in our driveway screams with melancholy.

The front door opens, and my mother steps outside. She’s wearing a red coat over her white nightgown, her slippers leaving footprints in the snow as she walks up to my dad. She usually hugs him when he returns after leaving so abruptly and without any explanation. But not tonight. There’s no hugging. No kissing. No loving gesture. They’re simply staring at one another, a silent conversation where words don’t need to be said because it’s already written on my mother’s slumped shoulders and Dad’s dismayed expression.

Something isn’t right.

I sit up straight as my dad leans closer to my mother, whispering something in her ear. I have no idea what he’s saying to her, but when my mom glances up at my bedroom window, the porch lights illuminating her face, I can see the weariness on her drawn expression.

I don’t hide, not caring that my mother knows I’m watching them. She doesn’t call me out either and turns her attention to the boy and girl. She holds out her arms and picks up the little girl, cradling her against her chest as she carries her inside the house, out of the winter cold.

When my dad turns to the boy, placing his hand on his shoulder, the boy starts to cry—and it’s not a gentle sob. It’s a violent, painful, soul-piercing cry I can hear all the way up to the second floor. It’s like his screams are being torn from his bones. The pain, the anguish, it has my chest tightening in response. His body trembles as my father pulls him close, comforting him while snow clings to his black coat. I have no idea what’s happening, but I can feel the weight of it. It’s crushing and brutal.

I have to know what’s going on.

I rush out of my bedroom, my feet pounding across the lacquered floors as I run down the hall toward the stairs. My heart is racing, and the sinking feeling in my gut is getting worse with every step.

I grab the staircase banister and lift myself onto it, sliding all the way to the bottom, and lunge forward, almost losing my balance as I land on the marble floor in the foyer. Mom would kill me if she saw that.

“Nicoli.”

Crap.

I turn to face my mother, standing by the archway leading to the living room. In front of her is this tiny human with big green eyes and soft-looking honey-blonde hair framing her red, tear-stained cheeks. Her chin wobbles as she tries to be brave, staring up at me as if I’m a giant towering over her. It’s as clear as daylight that this little girl’s heart is broken. She’s hurting.

My focus drops to a smear of red on the hem of her jacket, and my limbs go ice cold. “Is that…” I look up at my mom. “Is that bl—”

She silences me with a sharp, warning glare and lightly shakes her head. I’m not supposed to finish my question, but I already know the answer.

A sudden strong and deep sympathy claws its way into my chest as I look at the little girl’s face, and I’m soaking in every last drop of her sadness. This odd sense of protectiveness wells up inside me, and I have no idea why. I can’t explain it. It’s just…there.

My mother kneels beside her, placing a loving arm around the little girl’s waist as she looks at her. “This is my son, Nicoli,” she says softly, wiping a lingering tear from the girl’s cheek. “And he’s going to help take care of you.”

I arch a brow, and the little girl practically sinks into my mother as she leans in and whispers something in her ear.

My mom snickers as she straightens. “He does have pretty eyes, yes.” It’s when my mother’s gaze locks with mine that I know my life is about to change.

“Nicoli, I’d like you to meet…Mirabella.”