Chapter 58 THE HORRIBLE PAST
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ADELINE
The room was bathed in a warm, golden glow from the bedside lamp, casting soft shadows across the walls. It was quiet—so quiet that I could hear the soft ticking of the antique clock in the corner and the rhythmic breathing of my brother.
Vladimir laid curled up against me, his head resting on my lap, his fingers weakly holding onto mine as if afraid I would slip away. Even in sleep, his grip was uncertain—hesitant, as if he had spent too long without knowing the safety of family.
I stared down at him, my heart aching.
He looked so small.
Despite the hints of maturity that life had forced upon him—the sharp angles of his face, the scars, the pain buried deep within his unconscious form—he was still just a boy.
Sixteen years old. A child who had never been given the chance to simply be one.
Tears brimmed in my eyes.
I wanted to cry. To sob, to scream, to let the weight of everything crash down on me. But I couldn’t.
I had spent so long forcing myself to be strong, to be unshakable, that now even when I wanted to break, I couldn’t allow myself not now when my brother is with me.
So instead, I sat there, running my fingers through his thick hair, brushing strands away from his face with a tenderness that had been absent in both of our lives for far too long.
I traced the edges of the scar over his eye. It was still fresh, still angry.
A mark of the hell he had endured.
My mind drifted back, back to the moment we were torn apart.
Vladimir had been ten.
Even then, he had always been different. Wild. Reckless. He had always felt emotions too deeply, reacted too strongly. Where other children could be calmed with soft words, Vladimir had needed control, restraint. He had been explosive—and one day, that fire had burned too bright.
I could still see it—the blood on his hands, the way his chest had heaved, the sharp rise and fall of his shoulders as he stood frozen over a lifeless body.
He had killed a man.
Not by accident. Not by mistake.
He had done it in anger.
And that had been enough for them to see him as a monster.
I had fought. I had screamed for them to listen.
But Leonardo had stepped in, his voice smooth, persuasive, filled with deceit.
“He’s dangerous, Ricardo. He’s uncontrollable. If we don’t do something now, he’ll ruin us all.”
And Bianca—
I squeezed my eyes shut at the memory.
Bianca had stood there, her expression unreadable, before she had nodded. She was his mother but she let Vladimir get ruined like that.
“Leonardo is right. He’s too young to understand what he’s done, but if we let him stay, he will only grow worse. He needs to be sent away.”
“No!” I had cried, my voice raw with desperation. Vladimir needed love which he could not get from his mother and he needed someone who’d understand him not such a punishment.
I had turned to my father, grabbing his hands, my eyes burning with unshed tears.
“You can’t do this! He’s just a boy! Please!”
But my father had been tired. Worn down. His shoulders slumped as he turned his gaze away. He had to listen to them for their pride and power he had.
And then—
The slap.
It had come so fast, so unexpectedly, that I had barely registered the sting before the sharp sound echoed through the room.
Bianca’s palm had left a red mark across my cheek, but I hadn’t felt it. Not really.
What I had felt was the betrayal.
The way my father had remained silent. The way Leonardo had smirked ever so slightly.
The way Bianca had looked at me—not with regret, but with authority.
“You will not speak out of turn, Adeline.”
I had hated her from that moment on.
I had loathed her.
But I hadn’t been able to do anything. I had been powerless.
And the next day, Vladimir had been gone.
Taken away.
Thrown away.
And I had been left behind, empty, broken, lost.
I had spent years chasing after something else, pouring my energy into something—someone—who had never truly been mine.
Luciano.
I had fought so hard for his love, for his acceptance, believing that if I could just earn it, I wouldn’t feel so alone.
But in doing so, I had lost the one person who had always been mine.
My baby brother.
A fresh tear slipped down my cheek as I stared at him now, his chest rising and falling steadily in sleep.
I had wasted so much time.
And it had cost him everything.
I bent down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, lingering there, inhaling his scent like I used to when they were children and he would crawl into my bed after a nightmare.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered against his skin.
Sorry for not fighting harder.
Sorry for not protecting him.
Sorry for not seeing the truth sooner.
But I wouldn’t fail him again.
I wouldn’t leave him again.
I ran my fingers over his knuckles, noticing how calloused they were. A sixteen-year-old boy with hands that had seen too much violence. Too much pain.
No more.
I would make them pay.
Every single person who had hurt us—who had betrayed us—would pay.
Leonardo.
Bianca.
Every damn one of them.
My eyes darkened, and I straightened my back, my expression hardening.
Vladimir had been cast aside.
I had been manipulated.
Our father had been murdered.
And now, they wanted to finish what they started.
They had tried to erase Vladimir. They had tried to erase me.
But they had failed.
I wouldn’t run.
I wouldn’t hide.
I would avenge them.
I would tear them apart.
For Vladimir.
For myself.
For the father they had stolen.
I looked down at my brother one last time before shifting him gently, laying him down so he wouldn’t wake.
Then, slowly, I stood.
My hands were no longer trembling.
My tears had stopped.
I had been weak before.
But now?
Now, I was ready.