Arabella

The table stretched to the far end of the room. It was covered in a white tablecloth, candles were lit, and flowers decorated the table. It was a “family dinner,” as Marco had described it.

Everyone was seated—some faces I could recognize at a glance, others I couldn’t.

My father was there, his eyes unable to meet mine. I looked away. My eyes searched for that one person.

Six was already at the table.

He didn’t look at me.

Good. I didn’t trust what I’d do if he did.

Marco and I took our seats.

“Arabella,” Marco’s grandmother began. She was sitting across from me, on the other side...