by Chloe Walsh
"A place to keep me hidden." I chewed on the words, tasting the poison that dripped from the accusation before shaking my head. "From what?"
"From the truth," he explained. "From who you really are."
"And who am I?"
"Well, you're not Holden Capaldi," he shot back. "That's for damn sure."
"I don’t believe you."
"No, you don’t want to believe me," Presley corrected gently. "And not wanting this to be real doesn’t change the fact that it is."
Numb.
I was so fucking numb.
Presley sighed wearily and scrubbed his face with his hand before saying, "Your real name is Jacob Toretto. It was your name that Chris scribbled everywhere before he died. I thought Romi was the key in all of this, but I was wrong. It was you all along. You're the key, Sketch. You're the hidden piece of the jigsaw – hidden in full view. It's genius really, when you think about it." He turned to the other men loitering around the room and waved a hand in the air. "Can someone please get my friend some pants to cover his penis and something to drink for the shock? And I don’t mean sweet-tea!"
Yeah, I had a feeling that I would be needing a lot more than sweet fucking tea to calm my nerves.
Fuck.
My.
Life.
2
Presley
Slumped between two strangers and clad in another stranger's clothes, Sketch looked completely lost while I blew his world apart by asking him to believe the impossible; that his life was a lie.
His beloved twin wasn't even his freaking brother and the people he had called his parents for the majority of his life were fraudsters.
Add to the mix that Sketch's bio mom had been murdered and his bio dad had been tossed behind bars, leaving him the last target from a family of mafia kings that had been overthrown from power – by Cal Dillon, no less – and you had a prescription for about thirty years' worth of therapy.
Yep.
This was more than a pickle.
This was a freaking watermelon!
I felt like crying for the boy he used to be – the one Chris had written about in his journal. The little boy that had been ripped from his mother's arms only to be tossed into hell on earth. Beaten and starved, drugged and branded, he had been subjected to inconceivable childhood torture, intended to strip him of his sanity, and in doing so, his identity.
Sketch had no memories of his life before the age of four – he'd said so himself.
Because they had needed him to forget who he was.
They had wanted a blank canvas so they created one.
Fucking monsters.
Against all odds, that same little boy had learned to fight for himself. He learned to love without being shown how, to care without having anyone care for him, and somehow morphed into the man before me now.
But I could see the broken child buried just beneath the surface of those finely carved muscles and tattoos.
Sketch Capaldi was beautifully broken, hauntingly vulnerable, and tragically alone in the world.
A lifetime of neglect, abuse, and castigation had been forced upon him for a secret he was unaware of.
An identity he never chose in the first place.
His only reprieve from the suffering, his one crutch in his lifetime of misery, had been the one person who loved him back.
Until they took her away from him, too.
And just like that, all of the guilt I held inside for keeping what I caught Romi and Sketch doing on the night of the Winter Formal a secret from Chris disintegrated into nothingness.
At the time, I couldn’t understand how Sketch could betray his brother like that, but after spending so much time with him in Houston and discovering the harrowing reality of his life, I got it now. Loud and clear. Romi Dillon consumed him. She was all Sketch ever had, and Chris, for all his good looks and intentions, had helped Cal Dillon take her away from him.
Hell, it was a miracle the poor bastard hadn't snapped and blown up the town.
"Are you okay there, buddy?" I dared to ask, knowing it was a ridiculous question to ask him, but needing to hear him say something. Fifteen minutes had passed by without Sketch uttering a single syllable and I was growing antsy. Patience wasn't a virtue I'd been gifted with and I loathed awkward silences.
"Am I okay?" Sketch repeated flatly, attention locked on his hands. "Let me think about it for a sec. My girl is missing. I've just been told that my name isn't actually my name. My parents aren’t my parents. The brother I was raised to believe was my twin wasn't my brother after all, and he was murdered to keep my identity a secret – more likely than not by the same man that killed my birth mother, framed my birth father, and shot me… Oh, and did I forget to mention that same prick just so happens to be my girlfriend's father!" He blew out a shaky breath. "So, no. I think it's safe to say that I am not okay, Pres."
"Yeah, that was a stupid question," I wholeheartedly agreed. "Sorry."
"Where's my dad?"
My brows shot up in surprise. "You mean your adoptive dad, right?" Wincing, I chuckled nervously. "Because we've already established that Cal exterminated your birth dad from your life. And your birth mom from the earth –"
"Pres!"
I winced, knowing the word vomit that I just spewed wasn’t helping matters.
"Smooth, cowboy," Lucky muttered, face-palming himself. "Real fucking smooth."
I swallowed deeply. "He's tied up out back."
Sketch looked me straight in the eyes. "I want to see him."
"Uh, do you think that's a good idea right now?"
"I don’t care," he deadpanned. "I want to see my dad."
"Sketch –"
"Now."
"Sweet mother of Madonna," I muttered in resignation, pushing my glasses up my nose. "Fine, buddy. Suit yourself. But when it all goes to hell in a handbasket, just remember that I was the one who told you that talking to that man was a really, really bad freaking idea."
3
Romi
Placing the pee-covered, rectangular shaped, stick of terror on the sink in front of me, I clutched the porcelain vanity and dragged in several deep breaths.
Breathe, Romi.
Just breathe.
The banging on the other side of the bathroom door I'd locked myself behind continued to drum through my ears, making my body jerk with uncontrollable shudders.
I needed an out.
I needed to just disappear.
Switching on the shower, I peeled off my clothes before stepping under the blistering spray of hot water.
I was trembling from head to toe, teeth chattering violently.
I felt violated.
I felt fucking ripped open.
Everything was broken.
Be alive, Sketch.
Be okay.
Please come and find me…
Numb, I grabbed one of the bottles of shampoo from the rack and lathered my hair. Taking a clean washcloth from the pile, I soaked it under the water and then pressed it to my face, breathing in the hot steam. Tearing at my face with the cloth, I roughly washed myself, streaking it with a concoction of dirt, tears, and terror.
In the midst of my breakdown, I thought about the lyrics of The Everly Brothers' classic All I have to do is Dream. It was the strangest and most inappropriate song to think about all things considered, but still, it was the perfect distraction from the turmoil I was drowning in.
"It's okay," I chanted. Keeping my face pressed into the cloth, I whispered the lyrics over and over again. "You're going to be okay."
"Ramona," my captor said from the other side of the bathroom door. "I played this very same waiting game outside of this exact door for only one woman in my life, and I have no intentions of doing it again with you." Three more loud bangs filled the air. "So, open the door before I break it down."
"I want to go home," I cried out hoarsely. "Now!"
"And where is home, Ramona?" Raffaele called back. "Back to your father? The man who t
raded your life for his?"
"No!" I hissed, trembling violently. "I want to go back to Sketch."
"Ah, yes, the boyfriend," I heard him muse. "I hate to tell you this, but the probability of your companion still being alive after taking a bullet to the chest is slim."
"No!" Terror sliced through me at the thought. "You don’t know that!" Balling my hands into fists, I screamed, "Sketch would never leave me!"
"Open the door."
"No!"
"Open it now."
"Fuck you –"
I instantly froze, my words dying on my tongue, as the sound of a gunshot pierced my eardrums.
Moments later, the door – minus its handle – swung limply inwards, and there he was in all his glory, dressed in Armani and armed with a pistol.
My captor.
The man I had no doubt would end my life.
Strolling into the bathroom like he didn’t have a care in the world, Raffaele tossed a towel at me, looking entirely unimpressed with what he saw.
Thank God…
Unsure of what else to do, I draped the towel around my naked body and watched in horror as my captor moved for the sink, attention riveted on the plastic stick.
"Well," Raffaele finally mused, turning to lean against the vanity. "This is an unfortunate development." Shoving his hands into the pockets of his suit pants, he released a heavy sigh. "When I agreed to take Calisto's daughter in exchange for his son, I did not anticipate that she would be carrying his grandchild."
My whole world felt like it had fallen away beneath my feet. "I-It's positive?" I dared to ask, feeling weak to the bone.
"Sí," Raffaele replied, pushing off the vanity and moving for the door. "Congratulations, Ramona. You are growing Calisto's bastard grandchild inside of your womb." With a shake of his head, he tutted softly to himself. What an unfortunate turn of events."
"Wh-what do you mean?" I strangled out, terrified.
"It means that the stakes have changed," he replied, giving me his back as he walked away. "I can never let you go now."
4
Sketch
I wanted to go home.
It was the very last thing I should want considering the fact that I didn’t have one anymore, never really had one to begin with, but that's how I felt.
If I had a wish in that moment, I knew it would be to go back in time and unlearn everything I now regrettably knew.
Christ, I was beyond messed up in the head.
I didn’t want to not be his son.
I didn’t want to not have a brother.
I didn’t want to be alone.
More than I already was.
When my father was dragged into the room a little while later by a couple of Gonzalez's goons, I didn’t feel the burning resentment and anger that I had expected to feel at the sight of the man who'd lied to me for my entire life.
Instead, I felt concern.
Because he had been beaten.
Because he was still bleeding.
Because I was afraid something bad was going to happen to him.
See? Completely fucked in the head.
"Holden," Dad acknowledged when the men shoved him onto a chair, though how he could speak when his mouth was that swollen and cut up was beyond me. "You're okay."
I watched them bind his hands and feet and only then did I feel the delayed anger roar to life inside of me.
It wasn't directed towards him, though.
No, I felt it for the bastards pinning him to the chair.
"Do you really need to do that to him? Tie him up, I mean. He's clearly not in any condition to run wild and scamper off," Presley said, speaking the words I was unable to say and eyeing my father with a look of concern. "Come to think about it, was beating the pretty out of him really necessary? I honestly can't see how, especially considering he was obviously trying to keep Sketch safe from Cal by smuggling him across the border – whoa, you've really done a number on his face, haven't you? Which, FYI, is a total travesty considering he has, or at least used to have, an uncanny resemblance to his son –"
"Shut up, creature," Gonzalez commanded.
"Okie-dokie." Presley threw his hands up in defeat. "Shutting up now."
With the same level of regal composure he always presented, my father kept his body straight and his shoulders back, refusing to slouch even when he'd been beaten half to death. "Are you alright?" Ignoring everyone around us, he kept his eyes on me. "Are you injured?"
"Dad." The word came out hoarse and full of longing. "Dad…"
"Did you hurt him?" Dad asked, attention flicking to the men sitting beside me. "He's an innocent in this."
"No, they didn’t hurt him," Presley interjected, sounding disgruntled. "But you did."
"Is that what you think?"
"It's what I know!" Presley pointed out, shaking Chris's journal around in his hands. "Unlike you, mister-aiding-and-abetting-a-psychopathic-shooter. Uh-huh. That's right. I went there. Now, start talking, Capaldi!"
"Pres!" I warned. "Back off."
"Don’t defend him, Sketch," Presley countered, furious now. "That man's been lying to you all your life. Now, I'm sorry that your fake-dad took a beating like that – I have never been one to condone violence, but let's call a spade a spade here; he has done nothing but lie and hurt you, Sketch. Your sympathy and protection is the very last thing he deserves."
"On the contrary, I've been protecting him all of his life," my father shot back calmly. "He's alive because of me."
"Strangely enough, I think you're telling the truth this time," Lucky drawled lazily. "Keep it up, old timer. The kid deserves to hear the rest from you. It won't matter a damn if it doesn’t come from the horse's mouth. He's too damn loyal –"
"Shut the fuck up," I snarled, chest heaving. "Leave him alone, dammit!" Turning back to my father, I begged, "It's okay, Dad. Just tell them you're my father and we can go. I won't let them hurt you again." My breath was coming hard and fast. "I promise. I'll get us both out of here."
For the first time in my life, I saw genuine emotion flicker in my father's eyes. "I can't do that, son."
No.
No!
No, no, no, no…
"Son!" I hissed, trembling violently as denial sunk its claws deep inside of me. "Exactly. I'm your son –"
"No, you're not," he interrupted me. "Not biologically, at least."
"Stop," I begged, physically twisting up in pain. "Please don’t say anything else."
"I tried to protect you," he continued. "All these years, Cal wanted you dead, but I couldn’t allow that to happen. You were his heir. The love of his life. His beating heart walking around outside of his body. I had to protect you –"
"You need to stop talking," I warned, dragging myself to my feet. "You're talking shit. This is crazy. You don’t mean any of this."
"You need to hear this," he pressed, coughing again. "You need to know where you came from, Jacob. It's vital."
"Stop." Shaking my head, I staggered away, desperate to be anywhere but here. "Don’t call me that." Feeling weak and disorientated, I leaned heavily against the pool table. "My name is Holden."
"Your name is Jacob," my father continued to speak. "You are a descendent of the oldest and most powerful family in Italy, and the one true heir of the Catalinian Mafia lord."
"Dad." Tears trickled down my cheeks. "Please don’t do this to me..."
"We share the same blood, but I am not your father," he said. "You are the son of my cousin Raffaele."
"Stop it!"
"Your mother's name was Carmella."
"Dad –"
"Fifteen years ago, Cal burned your mother alive while you watched."
"No, he didn’t." Sniffling, I shook my head and glowered at him. "My mother's name is Olivia."
"I'm so sorry, Jacob –"
"Stop calling me that," I snarled, crying like a fucking baby. "You're my dad and Mama's my mom. I know I'm not much to write home about. I know I'm a complete fuc
k up, but I'm your fuck up, Dad. I'm yours!"
"That's why she's been treating you like a second-class citizen your whole life," Pres added. "Because in her eyes, you were –"
"Shut the hell up," I hissed. "Don’t talk about my mother like that!"
"Who? The woman who is nowhere to be seen?" Pres tossed back. "You were shot, Sketch. Fucking shot. Your piece of shit fake-dad's here. At least he tried to do the right thing. But where's your so-called mother?"
I flinched. "Don’t –"
"That's right," he quickly carried on, gutting me with his words. "She's not here. Because she doesn’t care. Because you're not her son!"
"Shut your goddamned mouth, Quinton –"
"Olivia isn't your mother," Dad interrupted. "Your mother's name was Carmella and when you were three years old, you watched her die."
5
Sketch
"Bullshit." I shook my head, vehemently denying his words. "You're a fucking liar just like the rest of them!" Heart gunning wildly in my chest, I moved to go to him, only to stagger backwards. "I didn’t watch any goddamn woman burn and the last I checked, my mother was alive and breathing – hating my guts, but breathing all the same." Banging up against the counter of the bar, I dragged in a pained breath and tried to steady myself. Pain. It was everywhere and my head was spinning. "Screw you. Screw all of y'all." Vision blurring, I grasped at the counter. "I just need Romi."
I needed my girl, dammit.
She was the realest thing about my life.
She was the realest thing about me.
Without her, I was lost.
"You're in denial, Jacob." Dad choked out another wheezy cough. "And that's my fault, not yours. You were conditioned to forget your past. It's the reason you're alive today."
Like a cruel twist of fate, images of a raven-haired woman flashed through my mind, causing my heart to thud violently and my stomach to churn.
Accompanying those images was the unforgettable smell of burning flesh, the feeling of sheer helplessness, and the sound of screaming.
