House of Clowns (HUNT Trilogy #1)

2. TWO

TWO

ACE

I walked home, step by step, along the same cracked road I always took. My feet followed the familiar path on their own, but my mind was heavy, burdened with the weight of it all. Carlo was only two when Mom vanished, and it became my job to take care of him. Our older brother, Christian, had made his escape to New York the moment he could, leaving us behind. He promised a thousand times he'd come back for us, but he never did. He got away, while Carlo and I were stuck here, in this wretched place where sin had a tighter grip than hope, and good days were a rare blessing.

When I reached the front door, I turned the handle slowly, slipping inside like a shadow, hoping to go unnoticed. This was supposed to be our safe place—mine and Carlo's—but it never felt that way. Deep down, I knew it never would.

The first thing I saw was the brown sofa, still swaying slightly. A crumpled lace cloth was thrown over the top, still warm from where my father had been. An empty bottle lay beside it, with just a few drops left at the bottom—never enough to drown his sorrow or his anger.

"Oh, look who decided to show up," he sneered from the kitchen, leaning against the worn countertop. His body swayed a little, just like the sofa. The kitchen was in shambles—the cabinets barely hanging on, some missing doors completely. We could hardly scrape together enough for food, let alone fix anything.

My eyes went to Carlo, huddled beneath the table, his small body curled into a tight ball. Angry red welts from the belt marked his skin. He was shaking, arms wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth as tears slipped silently down his face. Eleven years old and already being taught what it meant to be a "man," according to my father. But no real man teaches through fear and pain. No real man breaks his child to prove a point. My father had never been a man, not in any way that counted. Just a bitter, cruel stranger we had to endure for the sake of having a roof over our heads.

Carlo didn't know how to be a man yet. He hadn't even been allowed to be a child.

I stood frozen in the doorway, glancing between Carlo and my father, trying to figure out what had triggered him this time. But I already knew. It was always the same—drink, rage, and that twisted sense of power he clung to.

"Where the hell have you been?" he barked, his voice thick with anger.

I stayed silent, my heart pounding in my chest. There was no good answer. I didn't want to provoke him, didn't want to give him more fuel. All I wanted was to grab Carlo and get us out. But keeping quiet never stopped him. Silence only seemed to make things worse.

"You think this is funny?" he growled, his belt cutting through the air before it slashed across my back. The pain was sharp, immediate, like my skin was on fire. I gritted my teeth, holding in the scream that built in my throat.

"You think you're smart, huh?" he sneered, stepping forward. Before I could react, his boot connected with my ribs, sending a shock of pain through my entire body. The kick knocked the wind out of me, and I gasped, feeling the ache spread through my bones.

"You think this hurts?" he spat, standing over me as I crumpled in the corner of the living room, curling in on myself, trying to shield what little of me remained intact. My vision blurred with tears, my body trembling as he loomed above, waiting for me to break—waiting for an apology, a plea, anything that would make him feel like he was in control.

But I gave him nothing. Not a sound. Just the rasp of my breathing as I held onto the one thought that kept me going: one day, I'll get us out of here.

One day.

He raised his hand, and I barely had time to brace myself before his palm connected with my face, delivering a blow with all the force he could manage. My head snapped to the side, and the familiar taste of blood filled my mouth from the split in my lip. The sharp sting radiated through my cheek, but in the midst of the pain, I focused on one thing—counting to three. It was my only escape, my small ritual. One, two, three... and I'd close my eyes, pretending I was somewhere else. Somewhere far away. Even if those places were born of nightmares, they were still better than this.

I didn't move. I didn't speak. I barely even breathed. With my eyes half-closed, I glanced at Carlo, still curled up under the table. His small body shook, but he didn't make a sound. He knew the rules of survival better than anyone—stay hidden, stay small, stay quiet. He wasn't trying to be brave or tough. He knew that at eleven, he couldn't fight a man so broken, so drunk, that he'd lash out for no reason at all.

I looked at Carlo briefly, then turned my head away, my heart racing as I shut my eyes again. I heard the soft click of the door lock. Carlo had done what I couldn't—he'd found a way to protect himself.

I wrapped my arms around my head and surrendered. The blows came, each one hitting me like a wave crashing against a cliff, relentless and unforgiving. The pain merged into one dull throb as my body bruised, swelled, and went numb. I let it happen, giving up the last bit of resistance, as his fists kept raining down, lifeless thuds against flesh that had stopped feeling.

"You're pathetic," he spat between strikes, his words like poison. "Just like your mother. Fat, stupid, useless."

His words cut deeper than the blows ever could. They were sharp, seeping into my mind, festering long after the bruises would fade. Words didn't just hurt—they destroyed. Coming from him, they were worse than the beatings. Each syllable tore at me, reopening wounds that never fully healed. I had learned to numb myself to pain, to people, even to time itself, but his words stayed. They made me believe I was worthless, unworthy of love, unworthy of happiness, unworthy of anything.

I woke to the cool touch of a wet cloth pressed against my forehead. The relief from the burning on my skin was immediate, soothing, though the rest of my body still ached deeply. Gentle hands moved over my face, wiping away the dried blood. I could hear quiet sobs, the soft sound of tears hitting my hair.

"Dad said we can't take you to the doctor," Carlo whispered, his voice small and fragile. "And he doesn't want me going to school either."

The bowl of water beside him was stained red, and the cloth in his hands was soaked with my blood. He had been cleaning my wounds for who knows how long, doing what little he could with what we had. This wasn't the childhood he deserved. Carlo deserved so much more. I wanted to reach out, pull him into my arms, tell him I was okay, that everything would be fine. But I couldn't. I had nothing left in me. No strength, no energy. I was hollow.

"You're safe, Chiara," he whispered as if trying to comfort me. "I locked the door. Dad can't get in here."

A single tear slipped from the corner of my swollen eye—the one I could still open. The other was bruised and swollen shut, probably a sickening purple by now. I couldn't see much, but I felt Carlo's small weight as he rested his head gently on my chest, listening to the steady beat of my heart.

"Do you think she pretended?" His voice was soft, fragile, full of innocence that nearly broke me. "You know, to be happy?"

My heart clenched at his words, memories of our mother flooding back—the way her smile never quite reached her eyes, her laughter that always seemed forced, and the way her hands would tremble when she thought no one was watching. Carlo had been too young to remember the worst of it, and in some ways, I envied him for that. But he knew enough to ask the question. He understood.

I swallowed hard, the words catching in my throat as fresh tears welled up in my eyes. "I hope not," I whispered back.

But deep down, I knew the truth. She had pretended, to wear a mask, just like I did now. She had tried to convince us that everything was okay, that happiness was something we could still reach. But it never was—not for her, not for us. She had been trapped, just like I was now, and pretending was all she had left.