Page 4 of Vicious Intentions
I walk over, pick it up, and hand it to him. “It can’t be that hard, right?”
His smile widens, and I swear it nearly blinds me with how bright it is. He grabs my hand again and leads me to the couch, dropping onto it as if he’d done this a thousand times before.
“What are you into? Are you okay with gore?” he asks, half-turned away from me as he reaches back to flick through the video games lined up on the shelf beside the couch.
“No. Not really.”
“Driving games, then?”
“I’m thirteen,” I laugh. “Years away from taking driver’s ed.”
Raffaele stills with a game case clutched in his hand, and then lets it fall back into place. He shifts on the cushions, leaning back and turning fully toward me.
“Thirteen, huh?”
I nod, confused as to why he’s looking at me like that. “I…um… turn fourteen in March.”
“Wow, okay. I could’ve sworn you were older. You talk like you’re older, at least.”
“I do?” I maul on my lower lip, unsure if that’s a good thing or a bad.
“Hey, that wasn’t an accusation,” Raffaele says quickly when he sees my brows pinch together. “It comes with the territory. Thirteen in mob years is like eighteen for normal kids. Don’t sweat it.” He winks before giving my knee a little pat.
I’m not sure if that’s true, but then again, I don’t have much experience with other kids my age to know the difference.
Raffaele turns his back to me again, pulling from the shelf the same game he’d dismissed earlier. He slots it in and straightens as the console hums to life.
“How old are you?” I ask as theGrand Theft Autologo fills the screen.
I guess even in games, we can’t stray too far from ourmafiosoroots. Still, as crimes go, stealing cars doesn’t seem like the worst one.
“I turned fifteen three months ago. That’s twenty-one in mob years.” He winks as if all this were a joke to him.
It’s not. Fifteen means that in a few years he will be taking omertá too. It means that he’s probably already doing low-level work for his own father for the Cosa Nostra.
Or maybe not. The twins are fifteen, andMammàhasn’t let them anywhere near the family business yet. Maybe Raffaele’s mother is the same.
“So, what grade are you in?” he asks as we drive through the hills of what looks like California.
“Seventh. I got… held back a year,” I say, fighting to keep the controller steady as it vibrates hard enough to rattle my grip.
“Held back, huh?”
Since there isn’t really a question there, I don’t offer an answer either.
Officially, I was held back in kindergarten due to social anxiety. The nuns at Sacred Heart told my parents that I struggled to engage with them and the rest of the class. So they decided it would be better to give me another year to mature before sending me on to primary school.
The real reason behind my anxiety was harder to explain. Everywhere I turned, I didn’t see classmates—I saw cracked skulls and sliced bellies. My parents were worried, so thefollowing year I made sure not to give the nuns any reason to keep me back again.
I still don’t interact much with my classmates, but my grades are too high now for anyone to use my detachment against me.
“I started high school this year,” Raffaele continues when he realizes I’m not going to say anything. “It’s okay, I guess.” He shrugs as his car plows through a group of pedestrians, forcing me to mentally remind myself that it’s just a game and not actual people.
“You don’t sound very excited about it,” I finally offer.
“You picked up on that, huh?” he says with a smile. His smile always seems to come so easily for him, even when his eyes tell a different story. “Everyone already knows who I am there. They’ve made up their minds long before ever meeting me. Maybe college will be different. Not high school.”
I understand him perfectly. It’s the same with me back at Sacred Heart. Everyone knows my family, or at least has heard the rumors of what we Romanos get up to behind closed doors to make their judgments.
