by Seth Eden
Up above me, the thunder rumbled through the sky. I glanced up, watching thick, black clouds roll in from the north. A flash of lightning, fleeting and bright and beautiful, burst furiously across the sky. Seconds later, the downpour started.
But I didn’t move.
I sat there, frozen, still as stone, as the rain hammered into the earth.
In that moment, despite the cold and the nothingness, I couldn’t help but think of Alana’s favorite poem. It seemed macabre now, that she loved a poem about death so much. But, Alana was a strong, resilient woman. I could hear the words of the poem in my mind, spoken in her soft, smiling voice.
“Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there. I do not sleep.”
I took a deep breath and blinked through the rain as it soaked through my clothes.
Her whispers floated through my head, resting on the new cold stone of my mind like freshly fallen snow.
“I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.”
“Alana,” I whispered, closing my eyes tight and shivering. The world was drowning around me, the rain so torrential and unrelenting that it was practically biblical.
“Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there. I did not die.”
I yearned to feel her hand on my shoulder, her lips on my cheek. But, I was, for the first time in years, truly, completely, absolutely alone.
Alone.
Epilogue
In the end, something always breaks, whether it is a porcelain plate, a human heart, or a fragile life. Such is the fate of the Varasso family.
The Sunday evening after the death of Alana Rhodes, the Varasso family cook busied herself in the kitchen, as usual. Sunday dinners had been a fixture in the Varasso household for decades, even when Valentina died, even when young Gabriel appeared, even when Angelo’s mistress disappeared.
But, this Sunday was different.
Luca Varasso had left the morning before, halfway through his father’s monthly family meeting, and hadn’t been seen since. Marco, the second son, had gone looking for him, but he was nowhere to be found. Not in the little apartment he’d kept with Alana downtown, not at the tiny sandwich shop he’d frequented as a teenager, not in any of the parks where he’d taken to going on long, wandering walks with the newborn Anna Varasso in tow.
The first Varasso son had disappeared.
Gabriel and Alessandro, the youngest of the Varasso boys, took on the majority of their father’s demands, leaving Marco to search for the lost Prince. He’d taken Anna with him, so they figured he couldn’t have gone far, especially with a newborn that required a very specific series of medical appointments. But, the Varasso family doctor said he was told not to disclose Luca’s location, though he did confirm that little Anna had been in for her check-ups and vaccines, and that she was both healthy and flourishing.
With Luca gone, Marco searching, and Gabriel and Alessandro picking up the slack, Angelo Varasso was left alone at the head of the table in the dining room. He frowned over his usual glass of single malt whiskey.
The table had been set, but he was the only one who had arrived.
The cook, a short woman of sixty-two years who’d known Angelo Varasso since he was a young boy, the oldest son of the formidable Giuseppe Varasso, bustled in with a tray of covered plates, prepared to serve the meal like she’d done for almost thirty years.
When she saw Angelo Varasso sitting alone, the room still and silent, she froze.
The old leader of the elegant Varasso drug empire sighed quietly and looked up at the woman.
“No dinner tonight, Rosa,” he sighed.
“No dinner?” Rosa was utterly confused. Despite every horrible tragedy that had struck the cursed Varassos, Sunday dinner had taken place no matter what.
“No,” replied Angelo.
Rosa nodded once and turned to leave the room but Angelo cleared his throat as if he were about to continue speaking.
“Please,” he added. “Feel free to box it up and bring it home to your loved ones. I know you work hard on these Sunday affairs.”
“Thank you, sir.”
She hurried out of the room, disturbed by the chill in the air.
The next Sunday, Angelo Varasso appeared in the kitchen at noon, around the time that Rosa began preparing the meal.
“Don’t bother today, Rosa,” he muttered, his voice quiet. Anyone who didn’t know Angelo well wouldn’t be able to detect the smallest hint of worry in his voice. But, of course, Rosa knew him as well as if he were her own family.
Another Sunday passed, and Rosa began to get the hint.
Twenty more Sundays passed like that.
And then, before anyone knew it, a year passed.
An entire year, and the death of Alana Rhodes still hung heavy on the shoulders of Luca Varasso. Those who knew him tended to comment on the way he had hardened, the way he’d darkened, over the past year. That darkness had spread throughout the family, with a strength that suggested Luca carried just as much influence as his father.
Angelo Varasso watched his son warp into a twisted, monstrous version of himself. He was concerned about the stony barrier that had been erected around his oldest son’s heart, but he was also happy for it. No longer was his heir distracted by love, blinded by some beautiful woman. Angelo himself had spent most of his life distracted by lovely women. Only now, years after losing both of them, was he truly strong and focused. The Varasso drug empire had blossomed and grown into an unstoppable beast that would feed Angelo’s family for generations to come.
Luca’s father didn’t want to admit it, but he thought his son was better this way.
And maybe he was right.
Luca was stronger, deadlier, and more calculating than ever. Those who feared him before the death of Alana Rhodes were now terrified by the mere mention of his name. Even other Varassos, family members who weren’t as high up in the chain of command, grew uneasy at the mention of the oldest son.
Thus, the Varasso family curse continued. It was clear that earthquakes and hurricanes and tragic injury weren’t the only thing plaguing those in the bloodline. Varasso men were fated for heartbreak.
The other sons, who’d begun to realize that, started guarding their own hearts.
It wasn’t long until the entire lot of them were purely, irrevocably heartless. One cold King, four heartless Princes, and an entire city under their control.
But, this wasn’t the end of the Varassos’ story.
It was just the beginning.
Fallen Knight
1
Molly
Gritting my teeth, I shoved the blade of the butcher knife down with all my strength. The crunch might’ve been more satisfying if it’d been going through what I wanted it to—my boss’s daughter Candi’s head—but instead, I had to make do with the red onion on the cutting board. As if on cue, Candi’s whiny voice rose in volume, reaching me through the walls of the kitchen.
“But these Louboutin’s are purple. Purple. I told you I wanted the blue ones. I hate purple!”
“Darling, the clerk said they were royal blue,” Candi’s dad said, trying to placate the little bitch.
“They’re purple! So ugly. I’ll never wear them!” Then the brat burst into tears. She threw a tantrum like a two-year-old, shouting and crying. All fake, of course. This was how she got her way.
God, just kill me now.
I’d been working for the Benton family for two weeks as their in-home chef, and it’d been the longest two weeks of my life. Well, okay, that wasn’t strictly true. I’d had a lot of long miserable weeks in my life, and I’d survived them all, too. But Candi’s over-the-top behavior stood like a sharp, heavy weight on my last nerve.
Maybe it wouldn’t have been so irritating if the job paid better. As much money as these people had, they could afford more. But instead, I received twenty cents above minimum wage to cook three meals a day for them. Since I’d
lost my job at a local diner when they’d gone out of business, I’d taken the position the Bentons offered.
I’d thought working with one family would be easier than cooking for multiple customers in a restaurant environment.
Boy, had I ever been wrong.
They’d instructed me to prepare food ahead of time for breakfast and lunch, simple meals they could refrigerate then pop into the microwave if necessary. But they wanted all their dinners fresh and hot. Which meant I had to be right there in their house to prepare them every single night.
Creating meals brought me solace. At least usually. For nine years I’d worked at the Intersection Diner, first as a server, then as a cook. Old Man Bertolli hired me then took me back to the kitchen as a sort of apprentice. He’d been such a sweet, kind gentleman. He’d been patient and generous as he showed me the secrets of the culinary arts.
I’d been a high school dropout with no hope of a decent future. But he’d taken me in. Believed in me. He was like the grandpa I’d never had.
Then, he died. He’d been sick for a long time and hadn’t told anyone, including me. He’d wasted away before my eyes. The big C. Cancer. And once he was gone, the diner began to circle the drain. Bertolli senior had bequeathed the place to his son who had no ambition and no talent with business. The son filed for chapter seven six months later.
Which left me not only mourning the old man but jobless to boot.
I looked around at my massive stainless-steel surroundings. Before working here, I’d never been in such a ritzy home. It was the type of residence I’d dreamed about growing up. High ceilings with exposed beams. Five bedrooms and four bathrooms. Chandeliers. Either travertine tile or plush carpet throughout. A multi-car garage. A gym with a sauna. Lavish and comfortable.
I would’ve given nearly anything to live in such a place as a kid.
Maybe that’s why my toleration for Candi was almost nonexistent. She had no idea how lucky she was. She’d never had to dig through dumpsters for food. She’d never slept in a gutter and been awakened by a sudden downfall of icy cold rain. She’d never sold her body to the first guy who’d offered her a fifty-dollar bill in order to feed her baby sister.
Granted, I’d only done that last thing once.
My sister Tara had been eleven and starving at the time. I’d been sixteen and desperate. I’d tried to pretend I was somewhere else as I let the man do what he wanted, but the whole experience had been painful and degrading. Horrifying even. So when I saw the Help Wanted sign in the window of the diner, I’d gone in. I’d been dirty and injured, sore and hungry.
In more ways than one.
Really, Bertolli should’ve shown me the door. Anyone else would have. But he didn’t. He’d taken one look at me and led me upstairs. At first, I wondered if he planned to hurt me, too. Instead, he’d shown me his shower, given me some of his granddaughter’s clothes, and offered me a clean, safe way to make a living.
He’d allowed Tara and I to move into his granddaughter’s old room, so we’d be off the streets. His giving nature allowed us the opportunity to live without fear for the first time ever. My sister had even been able to stay in school and make something of herself.
Before him, I hadn’t believed in miracles or even that good things could happen. For that reason and many others, Bertolli would always be an angel in my eyes. My own personal guardian angel.
He’d been far nicer to us than either of my parents had. My father had been an angry man who’d done nothing but yell and physically abuse my mother. In fact, in one of his rages, he’d beaten a guy he worked with to death, landing him in prison right after Tara was born.
My mom had divorced him shortly after, but instead of making something of herself, she grew weak. My mother drank frequently before this, but once my dad had been taken away, she began to stay drunk. All the time. At one point, she disappeared never to return. With no adult in our lives and no means of support, my sister and I ended up homeless.
Yeah.
So, as a teenager, I’d had to fend for both myself and Tara. There’d been no other choice. To this day, I didn’t know for sure if our mother was dead or alive.
Then, Old Man Bertolli had essentially rescued us. He’d even left his home to us. It might not be much, but it kept a roof over our heads.
With him gone, though, I’d been forced to find a new income stream. And I had. Unfortunately, that meant being stuck listening to spoiled rotten Candi Benton every night. It made me want to pull my hair out. Or better yet, hers.
After my special sausage, onion and tomato sauce was ready, I poured it over the farfalle pasta, and brought it out to their long mahogany dinner table. I spooned the meal onto their china place settings, then went back to the kitchen to retrieve some parmesan cheese.
As usual, pampered Candi sat in her cushioned dining room chair with a throw pillow on her lap, a pout prevalent on her face. I didn’t know if the pout was due to the shoe issue or something else, and honestly, I didn’t care. As soon as I finished serving them, I’d be allowed to leave, and tonight I was more anxious than usual to do so.
Over the past two weeks, I’d been able to keep my lips buttoned shut by imagining fun and creative ways to punish Candi.
I started with more innocent things like using food coloring to make her milk a weird color or putting a bouillon cube in her bathroom nozzle to turn her shower into a soupy broth. But lately, I’d been imagining more gruesome events like dumping boiling water in her lap or gouging her in the skull with the family’s butcher knife.
Good times.
“OMG,” Candi huffed out. “Are you seriously giving us pasta again?”
I hadn’t made them pasta in the entire two weeks I’d been there. Not once. If I hadn’t needed the job, I would’ve told her what she could do with her pasta, in elaborate detail. But since her parents were my employers and were sitting right there, I remained silent. I had to bite my tongue to do it. Literally.
“And onions?” she added, staring at me hard. “Onions are so gross!” I’d served onions in their meals at least three times for sure, and the teenager hadn’t said a word about not liking them until that second. Candi lifted her spoon and threw it on the plate, splashing some of the sauce onto the table. She pointed at her dinner and said, “Bring me some of that without onions.”
“You want me to pick the onions out of the sauce?” I asked, incredulous. I’d minced those onions into teeny fragments the size of splinters. Was she out of her ever-lovin’ mind?
I glanced over at Mr. and Mrs. Benton. Mr. Benton had put his fork down while the missus had hers halfway to her mouth, but both simply watched me as if wondering why I wasn’t doing what their daughter demanded.
Wow.
I turned back to Candi, who sneered and said, “I don’t care how you do your job as long as you do it.”
Up to this point, I’d been attempting to push down my aggravation, but at those words, my vision flashed white with outrage. Acting on instinct, I stormed into the kitchen and filled a ladle with the sauce. I rushed back to the dining room and splattered its bright red contents onto Candi, her silk shirt, and the throw pillow she held.
“There’s your goddamn sauce!” I shouted at her, feeling instantly better.
“What is the meaning of this?” Her father flew to his feet, while her mother’s mouth gaped open like a fish, her hands wringing in the air. “This is the most unprofessional behavior I’ve ever seen. Get out. You’re fired!”
“Fuck that,” I told him, my voice still raised. “I quit!”
I marched from the room, went back to the kitchen for long enough to grab my purse, then flew out the door. I hauled ass down the steps along their front walk, my movements tight with anger. I caught a cab back to my place, ignoring the sights and sounds of Philadelphia in the fall, fuming throughout the twenty-minute trip.
Glad to find myself alone—Tara must be spending the night with her boyfriend—I hurried up to my bedroom.
As a kid, I’d learned to say a mantra to help get me through the toughest of times. Sometimes I said it aloud and sometimes under my breath, but either way, it kept me going. I muttered it to myself now as I began to prepare. “Stand tall. Stand strong.”
Other than cooking, my only other hobby involved shooting video. I had my own YouTube channel, and though I didn’t have many followers, I enjoyed letting loose on an open forum. I liked to express myself and have commenters agree with me. I’d become known for my rants; those brought me the most views, so I specialized in them.
And tonight, I had a doozy of one.
One thing I did to maintain my anonymity was wear a mask. The Venetian Masquerade mask covered the top of my face and had the added benefit of making me feel beautiful. It was gold and fuchsia and covered in glitter. I’d gotten it during the Mummers Mardi Gras Parade Philadelphia held the previous February, and I loved it. It made for a lovely disguise.
I opened the aging laptop Tara had used for school to my most recent comments, attached my phone to a tripod, and started, going off like a rocket. While I liked to have interactions with commenters who liked me, there were always some who simply came to troll my channel. I enjoyed going off on those, on raking them over the coals.
Their nastiness gave me more fodder to fill my video with, too. After addressing the trolls, I griped about rich people who knew nothing about what it was like to live in the real world. I next went on and on about spoiled teenagers—Candi, in particular—and I complained about the lack of entry level positions in the job market.
Finally, I did something else that got views, I chose some random local news image at the side of my feed and used it to make up a story.
Sometimes, my stories would be silly, sometimes sad, and sometimes even a little mean. It was all just made-up and imaginary, though. Expressing myself in that way helped me get things off my chest, to release whatever was upsetting me. And better, my stories tended to bring the most positive interactions.