4

3

AMON, 14 YEARS OLD

I  dropped to my knees, the punch making me lose my balance.

Mamma dropped the pink kimono she was stitching with a sharp intake of breath. My brother sat next to her, holding his breath and watching each move.

It was my weekly Goju-ryu and Shotokan karate classes with Master Azato, my grandfather’s old master. He might be advanced in age, but he was stronger than many men half his age. Stronger than my father. So, I listened to his instructions and practiced hard.

Not only because I wanted to be stronger than my father, but so I could be unbeatable and make my grandfather proud. He’d only entered my life in the past year, but he told Mamma he wanted me to take over the Yakuza. Mamma said it would make me stronger than Father. Stronger than the Omertà. Stronger than most of the underworld.

I worked hard and pushed myself even harder.

I pushed to my feet just in time to block another hit. Gasping, I gritted my teeth and used a mikazuki geri, bending my knee and pointing it to the left of Master Azato.

He grunted when I snapped my leg out, stopping it only a hair’s breadth from the side of his face. When he stepped back from me, he was smiling. “Good job, Amon,” he commended me in Japanese.

“Did I hit too hard today, Master?” I replied in the same language. My Japanese lessons were yet another requirement by my grandfather. Mamma was required to speak Italian in Father’s house, but when we were alone, she’d speak Japanese to me. It came in handy.

He shook his head. “Don’t ever hold your punches. For anyone.”

We bowed, signaling the end of the session.

I made my way to my mother and lightly tapped Dante on the shoulder. “Your turn.”

His eyes lit up. Father forbade him from taking lessons, calling them “mumbo jumbo,” but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

He got to his feet and kicked off his shoes, almost running to the middle of the mat.

“I’m ready, Master Azato.”

I lowered myself on the seat next to my mother and turned my head. My chest twisted. She was getting good at hiding the bruises, but I had gotten better at spotting the shades of her concealer.

“Mamma, why don’t we run?” I asked, my voice coming out hoarse as I switched to Japanese. It was safer this way because Father had never learned a word. Neither had Dante, but I knew he’d never tell him even if he could hear us. He loved our mother and wanted her to be safe. She was the only mother he knew. The only one who ever showed us love and affection.

Father never talked about Dante’s birth mother. Mamma usually paled whenever the late Mrs. Leone was brought up—the wife who died during birth under mysterious circumstances. I didn’t know whether it was Mamma’s shame in knowing that she was the mistress while Father’s wife fought to survive.

Anger rolled through me at the messed-up triangle. Love was a hassle I didn’t need in life.

Mamma shook her head and touched my shoulder with sad eyes. “And go where, my little prince?”

“Back home. To Japan. To the Philippines,” I rasped, trying and failing to ball my emotions up inside of me. “Anywhere but here.”

Mamma was looking smaller by the day, wasting away to nothing. “I can’t,” she whispered.

I swallowed. “Why?”

She smiled in a way no one else ever smiled at me and took my hand in hers. Her brown eyes were kind but broken. “Because I was abandoned.”

My brows furrowed. “By Father?”

She shook her head, weary and sad. “No, by another man. Your father saved me.”

I still didn’t understand. Father was destroying us all. His cruelty knew no bounds. “He’s hurting us,” I whispered. “Can’t you see that?”

She touched my cheek. “But going home will hurt us more. My brother will want to secure the Yakuza for his son. To do that, he’d need to eliminate you.” My eyes widened. She’d been calling me her crownless prince for as long as I could remember, but she’d never told me why. “Trust me, Amon. I’m doing this for you. When you’re older, we’ll take it all.”

4

AMON, 20 YEARS OLD

“I  never thought we’d be in California without Father,” Dante muttered.

I agreed, but it worked to our benefit. Enrico Marchetti had had enough of the Leone-Romero feud disrupting the Omertà. So, he found middle ground. Dante and I would oversee all business dealings between the Leone and Romero families.

Win-win.

It was unusual, but this trip was also an opportunity to scout new locations for the expansion of my properties and businesses. Little by little, I had been acquiring docks, hotels, and casinos all over the world, while at the same time managing Father’s shit for the Omertà. Dante did the same. We didn’t want to have to depend on that cruel bastard while we waited for him to kick the bucket.

We pulled onto the Pacific Coast Highway and headed toward Malibu to meet with Tomaso Romero. For some reason, Romero’s daughters lived with their grandmother while he remained in Italy. We didn’t care about the specifics, we just knew Romero was in California, which made things very convenient for us.

I still remembered the day we met them. Two girls with electric blue eyes that reminded you of summertime and warm, sun-lit currents. It was the younger girl who’d caught my attention, and even though I hadn’t seen her since, those eyes stuck with me.

The April sun beat down on the hood of my black Mustang. There must have been a drought because most of the landscape leading up to the ritzy estates looked dry and desolate.

“This must be the place. Not too shabby,” I said to Dante twenty minutes later as we pulled up to the mansion that screamed wealth and Hollywood glamor. It was surrounded by a lavish iron fence lined with well-established greenery… I guess drought rules don’t apply to the filthy rich. You couldn’t see much of the pristine white mansion from here, but the view over the Pacific Ocean was unmistakable. It was a prime location.

A soft grunt caught my attention and I turned my head to the left. A pair of panties with little hearts and cinnamon sticks was the first thing I noticed.

Amused, Dante and I studied the struggling girl hanging off the white-painted iron fence as we slipped our hands into our pockets. The hem of her skirt caught on one of the spikes, leaving her to struggle as her pink ballet flats dangled off her feet.

“Motherfucking fences with pitchforks and stupid dresses,” the soft voice grumbled. She hissed as she tried to maneuver herself over, then came the sound of material ripping. “Please let this be the one time you actually hear me,” she cried, her pout evident from her tone as she flailed her arms.

It was only then that I noticed another girl, kneeling down and digging through a bag, her back turned to us. Her dark hair glimmered with shades of auburn, coal, and mahogany. They had to be the Romero sisters. My intel showed Reina was fourteen years old and her sister, Phoenix, was sixteen.

“You know, Marilyn Monroe could pull off her skirt blowing in the wind with grace. She even made it look like it was the most natural thing,” the girl continued, muttering to herself. “But then again, she didn’t have to worry about getting caught by her father, her ass hanging out for the whole world to see. I can handle Grandma catching me in this state, but Papà will blow a gasket.” She blew a frustrated breath. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Then, as if that wasn’t enough, she added another, “Fuck!”

A lightness filled my chest for the first time in a long time. It was one of the more entertaining things I’d seen in a while. I flicked a glance my brother’s way, and when it was clear he wasn’t going to help the girl, I closed the distance.

The one who’d been digging through her bag mere moments ago turned around and let out a soundless squeal. Her blue eyes widened in fear, glancing behind me to my brother and then back to me.

“What?” The girl’s dress was pulled up over her head, blocking her sight, but her arms felt around, grasping at thin air. “Phoenix, are you okay? What’s happening?”

She wasn’t exactly expecting an answer though, was she? Her older sister, who was currently staring at me like I was the devil incarnate, was deaf. The day the underworld found out that Tomaso Romero’s oldest daughter had Pendred syndrome, a genetic disorder that caused early hearing loss, Phoenix Romero had been labeled by her handicap.

Kind of like how I was labeled by my heritage on my mother’s side.

“Screw it, I’m ripping this dress off,” Reina hissed. “Whoever you are, you touch her and you’re dead. And look away, would you?”

I shook my head. This puny little cinnamon-heart-girl was threatening me. It was amusing as hell.

“I’m not hurting her, Reina,” I assured. Her body went still. “I’m going to help you get off the spikes, okay?”

A heartbeat of silence. “How do you know my name?” she asked, her voice cautious.

“We’ve met before.”

Her shoulders dropped from her ears a fraction. “Well then, help me down and stop gawking at my panties.”

“Who says I’m even looking at your panties?” Truthfully, I couldn’t help it since they were currently at my eye level. I tried to be discreet, but short of turning my back to her, it was unavoidable.

“All boys care about are panties,” she remarked, and even though I couldn’t see her face, I knew she was rolling her eyes.

“Moody, that one,” Dante remarked from where he stood by the gate, hands still in his pockets.

“There are two of you?” she snapped. “Good God, how many people are actually staring at my ass right now?”

“Just me,” I said, hiding my amusement. “Not to worry. I blocked my brother’s view, cinnamon girl. Although the entire block can hear your foul language.”

She blew a raspberry and mumbled something that sounded like, “I should have worn my black panties.” Then she cleared her throat and added loudly, “And don’t you worry about my foul language, buddy. My business, not yours.”

A chuckle vibrated in my chest. Even Dante couldn’t hold his in.

Stepping onto the three-foot-tall stone wall, I reached up to the top of the rail and unhooked her dress from where it was snagged. The soft pink material fell down her body, and I was blinded by the familiar golden-blonde curls that fell down her back, bright as ever under the afternoon sun.

Acting on impulse, I took one between my fingers, noticing it was even softer than it appeared. I wrapped it around my finger, the yellow strands shimmering like gold.

Reina hopped off, yanking her hair out of my grip.

“Ouch!” She brought her hand up and rubbed her scalp. “Why are you touching my hair?”

Her gaze met mine and it felt like an ocean crashing into me. When I was a little boy, my father had decided the time to swim was “now or never.” One day, when we were sailing on his boat, he dropped me into the Gulf of Trieste. I’d fought against the waves and current, but eventually, I saw the beauty around me. The sun pushed its rays into the depths of the blue sea, and I felt as though I could drown in its beauty. The life beneath the surface pulled me into its warm embrace and I’d felt safe, loved by it. More than my father. More than the whole world, except maybe for my mother and brother.

That day, the thought of leaving my brother and mother alone to our father’s mercy had me flapping my hands to reach the surface.

Yet now, as I stared into the blues of her gaze, I recalled that feeling again, and I feared I’d willingly drown for this girl.

“Hello?” She waved her hand in front of my face and I took a step backward.

“No need to be unpleasant,” I snapped, needing to regain control of my senses after that strange flashback. I couldn’t explain what had just happened, but I wasn’t about to let a little girl throw me off the task that lay ahead. “Why don’t you thank me and then be on your way, or should I tell your father how you treat guests at your home?” It felt harsh to speak to her this way, but I needed to put some distance between us.

Her eyes narrowed in distaste, but they were still so fucking beautiful, it hurt to look at her. She glanced at her sister and signed something.

Phoenix signed in return, to which Reina answered, “Agreed,” making me wonder what exactly was being said. She grinned, revealing a mouthful of braces.

Phoenix and Reina turned their attention to me, and it was only then I noticed the startling similarities in their features. One had dark hair and the other was blonde, but other than that, they could pass for twins. Their resemblance to their mother, the late Hollywood actress that had taken the world by storm, was uncanny. I supposed it was a good thing—for them—that they didn’t take after their father.

Reina shifted on her feet, glancing behind me to my brother. “Who are you two?” she demanded to know. “Aside from jackasses, obviously.” So much for my gallant attempt to free her from the fence. This girl was definitely trouble.

She signed as she spoke for her sister’s benefit. Phoenix snickered, but quickly tamped it down.

Dante’s eyebrow shot up. No woman dared to speak to us that way. They all knew our last name and the danger that came along with it. But this girl was still a kid. Okay, maybe not a kid, but she couldn’t have been older than fifteen.

“I’m Amon,” I answered.

My brother gritted his teeth. “Dante.”

Reina and Phoenix rolled their eyes in perfect sync.

“Last name?” Reina questioned, her eyes darting back to the mansion that peeked out from behind the fence and surrounding trees. Her ballet flats tapped impatiently against the pavement. She still signed for her sister’s benefit. “Come on, I don’t have all day.”

This girl was something.

“Leone,” Dante answered, but I was unable to look away from the ray of sunshine staring at me.

Recognition flickered in her eyes. She took a step back, her eyes zeroed in on me.

“I know you,” she murmured, almost as if she were talking to herself. Did the girl remember the boys who’d taken the fall for the broken vase? She wrapped her hands around her waist, almost as if that same fear from all those years ago shot through her, but then she removed her hands and signed something to her sister. I assumed she was translating the whole conversation and continued signing as she uttered the next words. “I remember you. You and your brother saved us from your father,” she said softly.

Then, to my surprise, she took a step forward and hugged me, lifting her face up to mine. She smiled, her braces on full display while I stood awkwardly. Something about her innocent embrace cracked through the broken shell of my soul and threatened to expose the bitterness that had lingered for years now. I wasn’t a little prince anymore; I was the bitter prince.

Ironically enough, it was her father who gave me the nickname.

Phoenix put her hand on her sister’s shoulder and pulled her away from me. She signed something, and Reina nodded.

“We have to go,” Reina murmured, her expression darting between my brother and me.

“Your father won’t be happy about you two sneaking out,” Dante warned.

Reina smiled mischievously. “Only if he catches us.”

I watched my cinnamon girl leave, but not before she glanced over her shoulder, her deep ocean eyes meeting mine.