A Truth and a Lie Read online

  A Truth and a Lie

  V. Sousa

  Copyright © 2021 by V. Sousa

  A Truth and a Lie

  ISBN: 979-8711648352 (paperback)

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial use permitted by copyright law.

  Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design: Emily Wittig Designs

  Two Red Pens Editing

  Colleen Snibson & Rogena Mitchell-Jones

  www.tworedpens.com

  This one is for me:

  You fucking did it.

  “Forgiveness is not always easy. At times, it feels more painful than the wound we suffered, to forgive the one that inflicted it. And yet, there is no peace without forgiveness.”

  —Marianne Williamson

  Contents

  Playlist

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  Author’s note

  Acknowledgments

  Playlist

  “Decode” – Paramore

  “Ride Slow” – Russ

  “Love You Twice” – Lilla Vargen

  “Seven Devils” – Florence + The Machine

  “Us” – James Bay

  “Out of Love” – Alessia Cara

  “Unfair” – 6lack

  Prologue

  I was always told that to be part of the mafia, you needed a gun and a cold heart.

  There is no room for love in this kind of life, and I know that.

  It’s like an unwritten code in the nonexistent handbook on how to successfully run a crime family.

  “Love is a weakness,” my grandfather would tell my brother and me. “It will be your biggest ruin.”

  I used to think he was crazy and had no idea what he was talking about, especially considering he worshiped his wife and absolutely loved his kids.

  Growing up, men of power always surrounded me, and they all had a weak spot. I would see the meanest of men show mercy to the people who said just the right things, show affection to their wife or children, especially my father, who was head of the Romano crime family of Chicago.

  Going back to 1921, my great grandfather, Dominic Romano, had moved himself and his whole family to America from Italy to start a bootlegging business with some of his brothers, and he was the best of the best.

  He was more of a no-nonsense, shoot first, and ask questions later type, so his business was extremely successful.

  If you ask me, though, I think he was just trigger happy.

  Since the twenties, my family has just gotten into bigger and more illegal things, from guns to strip clubs. You name it, we deal it.

  Some would call me fortunate to grow up in a family with so much money and power, but that’s all they care to see.

  I would’ve told you I had a perfect life at one point in time, but that was up until I found out a rival family brutally murdered my brother Samuel.

  From then on, I hated everything to do with the mafia and, most days, my family too.

  Sammy was my best friend, and he meant the world to me. We had been inseparable since birth. They say twins share a piece of their soul. He took a part of me with him that night he died, and I’ve never been the same since.

  My brother died on October twenty-fifth—our birthday.

  “Love is a weakness,” my grandfather would always tell us.

  I should’ve listened.

  One

  Rose

  Eighteen Years Old

  I’ve always despised the concept of funerals.

  You get dressed up from head to toe in black clothes to watch as someone you know and love gets buried.

  My family has had to attend countless funerals throughout the years, so maybe that’s the reason I hate them so much.

  I always felt sorry for the closest family members who stand in the front, not for their loss but for the fact that they have to force a smile and nod whenever they hear the repetitive “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Death can bring you to your lowest point, and in the days that follow, you have to stand in front of a bunch of people, not once but twice, and try to hold back your emotions while your world crumbles in front of your eyes.

  A two-part “celebration of their life” where you must entertain and thank every single person for attending.

  I think the worst part, though, is that from then on, whenever you think of the person who has died, it will always come back to that damn funeral, and all you’ll be able to see is their lifeless body lying in a casket.

  It’s a trick of the mind, really.

  You pay people to make your loved ones look like they’re peacefully asleep to try to ease the pain, but the harsh reality is that they’re not sleeping at all, and you’ll never see them again.

  Everyone is entitled to their own opinion, and maybe my problem is that I get too invested in people. I should just skip a step and keep my distance from others. That way, it won’t hurt so much when they leave you again, because they will. Everyone will, eventually.

  Of the hundreds of people surrounding my brother’s casket, I can only say that there are about half a dozen who truly knew him.

  For the brief amount of time I give them my attention, they all looked back at me with pity and confusion written on their faces, and I fucking hate it.

  They’re probably wondering why I’m standing here looking up at the sky, not once looking down or at what’s happening in front of me.

  I refuse to look at the casket. I can’t even tell you whether it’s open or not, or even what it looks like. Either way, I will not let this be my last memory of him.

  So, instead, I think of all the happy moments, remembering his smile and the last conversation I had with my other half.

  I’d give anything to talk to him just one more time, tell him how much I love him, even just to hear his voice again. But that’s the thing about death. You’d give everything to have one more conversation, but you know it would never be enough.

  Life’s a tough bitch, and she’ll always win the fight. I learned that one the hard way.

  Two

  Rose

  “What are you doing, Rosie Bee?” I heard my brother ask from behind me. “You shouldn’t be out here by yourself so late.” I looked up at him from where I was lying in the grass and smiled.

  “I’m looking at the moon and the stars, Sammy. They’re so bright and beautiful tonight. Come lay with me if you’re so wor
ried about me being alone.”

  He lay down beside me and shifts his gaze to mine. “What’s wrong, Bee? Why are you out here?”

  “Are you sure you have to go to New York with Papa? You’re going to miss our birthday, and I have a bad feeling about this.”

  “I’ll be right back. Don’t worry. It’s only for three days. If you miss me”—he pointed at the star closest to the moon—“I want you to look at our star, or you could just call me. Either way, I’ll be back for our birthday.”

  “Pinkie swear?” I held my pinky out to him.

  “I promise, Bee.” And he wrapped his pinky around mine.

  My eyes flew open, and I frantically looked around the room.

  I loved hearing my brother’s voice. Sometimes the dreams felt so real, and for those few seconds, everything was okay again, but then reality set in, and I was still alone.

  I wiped the tear that had fallen, then rubbed my wrist with my honeybee tattoo and read his writing—I love you, Bee.

  Whoever said this got easier was full of shit.

  “Rose,” my mom called from outside my door, interrupting my thoughts.

  I got up and ran to the mirror to make sure I got rid of any evidence of tears before she saw me. “Come in,” I said as I quickly got back under the blankets.

  My mother slowly opened my bedroom door and looked around my room. She was just now seeing all the changes I’d made in the past two years, which was how long it had been since she was last in here.

  She tried to move a laundry basket filled with paints that I’d left in front of my door, but it was too heavy for her, so she just frowned and went around it.

  She had gotten weaker in the last couple of years.

  Her green eyes weren’t as vibrant as they used to be, and her long black hair wasn’t as shiny as it once was.

  She’d always been short and relatively skinny, but she had lost so much weight that now her bones stuck out severely.

  I found myself frowning, and in return, she forced a smile at me but didn’t come any closer—probably fearing I would continue my inspection of how unhealthy and sad she looked.

  I rarely saw her anymore, and when I did, it was like once or twice a month at the most, which was sad considering we lived in the same house.

  “I’ve been knocking for five minutes. It’s time to get up. Your father’s guests will be here in a few hours, and you need to be up and ready,” she said softly, practically in a whisper.

  Perfect. Just how I wanted to spend my night—entertaining guests.

  “Why do I have to be present for this again? I never have to be part of these dinners, so what’s so special about this one?”

  I guess that wasn’t a good question because, in return, I got nothing but a sad smile. Then again, that was pretty much all I ever got out of her these days.

  “I’ll be down in time,” I said as she walked out the door.

  I grabbed my phone and looked at the time—10:48 a.m.

  That meant I had seven hours until Papa’s guests arrived, and I had to plaster my perfect daughter smile on my face and pretend that my life was peachy.

  Six hours later, I was showered, dressed, and finishing up my hair when there was another knock on my door.

  Two in one day? That was a record.

  “Principessa, you in here?”

  “Yes. Come in, Papa.”

  My father walked in, dressed to kill, and gave me a wide smile.

  Whenever I watched the old mafia movies, the boss was almost always an old, short, bald guy who ate all the time and never got his hands dirty, but not my father.

  In fact, John Romano was a very handsome man with his brown hair and dark brown eyes. He was well over six feet and more in shape than I could ever hope to be.

  He and Sammy looked so similar that others actually thought they were twins, which was saying something about my father’s appearance considering their twenty-six-year age difference.

  I felt him staring at me for a while before he finally spoke up. “Now, I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that you need to be on your best behavior tonight,” he said in his perfect Italian accent. “I have some important people I need you to be friendly with, and I can’t have you acting out of character.”

  I didn’t know if I should be offended or not.

  It took a lot of hard work to sit there and pretend you were the happiest person in the world, that everything was perfect, and I thought I did a pretty damn good job.

  “Don’t worry, Papa. I’ll behave,” I said with a full smile, still not looking in his direction.

  He sighed, and then I heard him walking back to the door. “Thank you, principessa. I love you. You look beautiful.”

  “Thanks,” I said as he closed my bedroom door behind him.

  It was sad to say that these days, I couldn’t seem to look my father in the eyes.

  On the harder days, I couldn’t even bring myself to look at him at all. Not only because his appearance was so close to Sammy’s that it almost physically hurt to look at him, but I just couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that he was still happily continuing business despite what was done to his only son.

  No money was worth losing a loved one. I liked nice things as much as the next person, but I would trade it all to get my brother back.

  Turning off my curling iron, I slipped on my dress for the evening and gave myself a quick pep talk before leaving the safety of my bedroom.

  I was on my way downstairs when I heard my mother and father in the kitchen whisper-yelling. I hadn’t heard them talk to each other in a long time, so it took me a minute to get over my initial shock and process what they were saying.

  “John, she’s not ready. She’s too young. Please don’t do this,” my mother begged.

  “It’s out of my hands, Maria. It’s now or never.”

  I tiptoed the rest of the way down the steps. I was just about to walk in and ask them who they were talking about when someone grabbed me from behind.

  I started to scream, but a hand was quickly put over my mouth, silencing me.

  I managed to wiggle out of their grasp quickly, and was about to go into fight mode, but when I turned around to get a look at who was grabbing me, I nearly fell over.

  Well, look at what the cat dragged in. None other than the enemy—Emmett Rossi.

  Judging by appearance, the two years it’d been since I’d seen him last were very good to him.

  Twenty-one-year-old Emmett was much more mouthwatering than the nineteen-year-old version.

  He’d gotten taller—he must be at least six and a half feet now. His hair was still the same shade of dark brown, and hot damn, his muscles were huge. His arms were now littered with tattoos; one even went up his arm, under his shirt, and up his neck.

  My lips started to involuntarily part but only for a minute before I slammed them back together. Ugh, I needed to relax before I started drooling. I hated how I was still very much attracted to him even after what he’d done to me.

  I was blatantly looking him up and down, and when I finally reached his eyes, I held in a sad sigh at their color. Those eyes had always had a way of making me melt. I could always tell what kind of mood he was in just by looking into them. Naturally, they were a beautiful shade of amber, but his eye color was always changing.

  My favorite was when they became more of a lighter blue; he was always able to tell me he loved me just by looking at me with those beautiful blues.

  Looking at them right now, though, they were black. I used to hate when his eyes were black. They were always that color after he got back from visiting his father in New York. It was like he would put a wall up and devoid himself of all feeling, making his eyes turn as dark as he felt.

  Two years ago, I was madly in love with him, and if you had asked me then, I would’ve told you he felt the same way. But looking back, he dropped me so quick it still makes me wonder if any of what I’d thought was even real.

  All the promises he�
��d made and the declarations of love, I now questioned. He had been my world, and I’d thought we would be together for the rest of our lives, but that was a different time. I was blinded by love and by him. Weak.

  Deeply and madly in love with him. But now? All I felt toward Emmett was disgust and betrayal.

  It was crazy to think that Sammy and I had been best friends with him ever since we were young. Most would say that you wouldn’t see one of us without the other two right behind.

  Two hours after my brother was buried, Emmett had stared at me with black eyes and told me he was no longer in love with me, that he couldn’t fake it, that it wasn’t fair to him or me to stay in a loveless relationship.

  I never saw him again after that. He became nothing but a memory, a ghost of the past—until now.

  I tried to deliver a swift kick to his balls, but I wasn’t nearly as trained as he was, so my attempt at saving his future wife from having to carry his spawn was quickly diverted.

  “Get your filthy hands off me, or I’ll scream,” I said through clenched teeth when he grabbed my arms and pressed me against the wall.

  “Go ahead. I’m sure your father would be thrilled about you eavesdropping on him.”

  I managed to break free of his hold again and gave him the meanest glare I could muster.