The Prodigal Son (War of Sins Book 3) by Veronica Lancet

Author:Veronica Lancet [Lancet, Veronica]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: VL Books
Published: 2023-07-21T18:30:00+00:00

twenty-three

AGE FOURTEEN

Michele came around hours later, finding himself back in his room, a cold compress against his cheek. He was dazed as he struggled to keep his eyes open, his body radiating with pain.

He blinked fast, all in an attempt to dispel the mental fog that had laid siege on his mind. At the same time, he wished he hadn't. Because then, the events of the day came rushing in.

"It's not true."

His brother had lied. Raf had promised he'd have his back and then…he hadn't.

With great difficulty, he managed to get up, his entire body stiff.

His father had spared none of his strength when he'd kicked at him. Luckily, used to such treatment, he'd brought his arms and knees to his stomach to protect the area since that was the most dangerous one. He'd experienced it before when he'd had broken ribs, when he'd been kicked so hard he'd spit blood for days on end. Now, only his extremities hurt, bruises already forming on his skin.

He took a deep breath, and heading to the bathroom, he splashed some water on his face.

His lip was split. A dark bruise appeared under his eye. One on his right cheek.

He looked thoroughly beaten.

Black damp locks fell over his forehead, his lush hair a curtain to obscure the severity of the damage. All at once, he was thrust back to the time when he'd had no hair—when his life had been so bleak his last worry had been whether people made fun of his baldness of not. Yet even in those moments he remembered wishing he were normal—wishing he looked and behaved like all those other kids.

Yet what had all that gotten him? Pain and disappointment.

He continued to peruse his form in the mirror. Without even realizing, he took a pair of scissors, holding tightly on to his hair as he snapped the strands from their roots.

He didn't stop. He cut until only a mess of wild wisps of hair remained. All easily remedied with a blade.

Michele wasn't himself anymore. He only saw the reflection in the mirror—all he hated and abhorred. He saw himself staring back and thought only about one thing.

Enemy.

For so long he'd been his own enemy and he'd been unable to recognize that. He'd convinced himself that he could forge his own path in the world, that as long as he was kind to others kindness would be done onto him in return. He'd been so sure of his philosophy in life that no matter how many obstacles he'd faced so far, he'd continued on.

He'd thought that as long as his conscience was at peace, he would be too.

Yet it was the reverse.

The more apathetic he was towards the evil things done to him, the more his mind became ridden with echoes of anguish and pain.

Nicolo's advice rang in his mind.

The world was truly kill or be killed. And Michele was the perpetual victim. Because of his weakness, or his idealistic perception of the world, he didn't know.

All he knew was that it needed to stop.

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