chapter 2: fractured memories

I woke to the weight of a breakfast tray on my bed. The smell of toast and coffee filled the air, but it didn’t make me hungry—it just reminded me no one had dared to step into my room since last night. Fear was thicker than the morning air here.

I ate in silence, every movement pulling at my sore back. The pain was a reminder of Hunter’s jealousy—the way his eyes had darkened when he saw me in that coat and those shoes, the way his toys had cut across my skin in sharp, stinging lines.

His scent still clung to me, woven into my skin. Years ago, I used to breathe it in with a smile. Now, I wanted to scrub it off until my skin burned.

The shower was longer than usual. I stood there, letting the hot water drown out the echo of his voice from last night, the heat masking the ache in my muscles. But breakfast had triggered something—a wave of nostalgia I couldn’t ignore.

After dressing in loose clothes, I wandered into my endless wardrobe, fingers brushing over old jackets, shoes, and keepsakes. Then I saw it—the heavy wooden box I hadn’t touched in years. My so-called golden memories.

Back then, the names DiMaggio, Hendrix, and Fiorello were more than feared—they were untouchable. Three families at the top of the mafia chain, each with one heir.

Hunter Hendrix and Francesco Fiorello had raised me more than my own father ever did. Hunter was reckless, my partner in crime; Francesco, the eldest, was calm, controlled, the only one who could handle the chaos we caused. He rarely spoke, but when he did, you listened.

Apart from them, I had no one. At school, I was popular but untouchable—lonely in a crowd. Maybe it was because I was the son of the most ruthless mafia boss alive. People whispered about me, stared, but never came close.

Then came the day I told them I liked men. That’s when Francesco began to pull away. I’d suspected his discomfort, but I didn’t expect him to avoid not only me, but Hunter too. His distance deepened under the influence of his fiancée, Eda Blanco—a woman who seemed to hate me for existing.

Eda was beautiful, older, and promised to Francesco since birth. Maybe she was jealous of the attention I got, maybe she just liked watching people fall. Whatever it was, she went too far—accusing me of harassment and bullying. Lies, but they spread like wildfire.

Francesco believed her. Others followed. My reputation burned, and I was left standing in the ashes.

Except for Hunter.

Hunter never looked down on me. He defended me, silenced the whispers, and made sure Eda’s games didn’t break me. He picked me up from school, helped me with homework, and taught me how to fight—how to survive.

Somewhere along the way, I fell for him. Maybe it was inevitable. He was everything I thought I wanted—protective, dangerous, magnetic.

The creak of the door snapped me out of the memory. I shoved the box back into its hiding place and turned.

Hunter walked in, carrying plates of food. He set them on the table before looking at me with that unreadable gaze. Then he stepped closer, hands sliding onto my hips.

“Let me help you get dressed,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear.

In the wardrobe, he pulled out a crisp shirt and tailored pants.

“Are we going out?” I asked.

“Yes, dear,” he smiled—a smile that could be gentle or dangerous, depending on the day.

He dressed me himself, fed me lunch, and drove me to the aquarium he had booked entirely for me. It was beautiful, but the empty halls felt strange. I kept imagining children’s laughter echoing against the glass tanks.

Still, we took photos, ate ice cream, and for a brief moment, I almost forgot.

Then, as we walked back to the car, a group of men passed by.

“Look at him,” one said. “Cute, handsome, and hot—all at the same time.”

Without thinking, I smiled. A small thing. A reflex.

I forgot I wasn’t allowed to smile at anyone but Hunter.

Before I could stop him, Hunter had one of them by the collar.

“What the hell?!” the man yelped.

“Dude, chill—we were just giving him a compliment!” another stammered.

“Compliment?” Hunter’s voice was ice. “Go and praise someone else. Not my man.”

The punch was so quick, so brutal, that blood sprayed across the pavement. I rushed to pull him back, panic tightening in my chest, but his shove sent me crashing to the ground. Pain shot through my wrist as I landed.

My hiss of pain snapped him back.

“Dylan…” he said quietly, stepping toward me.

“It’s Dylan DiMaggio and Hunter Hendrix,” one of the men whispered to the others before they bolted.

But I knew Hunter. They wouldn’t get far.

And when he caught them, they would never compliment anyone again.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***