Nothing major, mind you, just a touch of the warm and fuzzies. Hell, even a twinge of bitterness would be better than the emotional numbness that seemed to have settled over him during the long flight from JFK to Australia. He hated the lack of feeling. It reminded him too keenly of the first time he’d stood in this drive gazing up at Joe Corelli’s mansion, except that time he had deliberately schooled his eight-year-old heart to blankness. He hadn’t wanted to feel anything—not fear or confusion, shame or hope—so he’d simply looked at the big house and wondered how long till someone realized they’d made a serious mistake. Kids like Niccolo Corelli got arrested for being anywhere near houses like this. But the stranger who introduced himself as some relative of his dead mother had looped a comforting arm around his shoulders and said, “This is your home, Niccolo. Forget what came before—you’re part of my family now.” Part of a family. Nick hadn’t a clue what that meant, and, despite Joe’s best efforts, he’d never been allowed to forget his origins.
