The Vengeance by Allison Rios Read Free Book Online Page A

second in command in the household. She obeyed his father’s every whim, even as he forced her firstborn from their home as she stood in the background crying. She hadn’t argued, hadn’t put up a fight – it was his grandmother’s screams he heard from the kitchen that he remembered all too well. She had fought for him, but as a simple woman her cries had not been heard. But at least she had tried, he thought.
    “I’m so sorry for what I’ve done,” he told her, squeezing gently.
    The wrinkl ed hand reached up to his face as he shied away from the touch he remembered. When he was a child, she’d stroke his cheek gently and then place her palm against his cheek. She was always so warm, so full of love. The way he always wanted to remember her.
    “You’re different,” she said slowly, choking to get the words out.
    He reached for the nearly empty glass of water on her bedside table; however, she pushed it away.
    “You’re different. Like me.”
    He looked at her quizzically, wondering if senility had begun taking over her withered body. She was still smiling and he could see in her eyes that she was the same woman she’d always been.
    “We’re two of a kind, grandmother,” he said with a smile , forgoing his fear and placing his hand over hers.
    “More than anyone knows,” she whispered.
    She eased her hand down and pointed to a mahogany box on the table. A jewelry box, simple and beautiful. The one he’d made her in his father’s workshop when he was only eight or nine. It was completely uneven, the lid barely closing, but he had beamed with pride the moment he had given it to her. Using leftover paint he found in the barn to create a shaky and unsteady design on the top, he’d carefully created his grand masterpiece for a woman he dearly loved. She’d acted as if it were the most glorious present she’d ever received.
    He reached for it and handed it to her. She slowly opened the with crooked, arthritic fingers that had difficulty opening it, and reached in. She handed him two items – one, an envelope with a wax seal on the back, and the words “To My Maxwell” simply written on the front in wobbly scrawl. The other was a chain with a charm attached. He’d never seen anything like it. She lowered it into his hands slowly, medallion first followed by the chain. She then closed his hand tightly around it, her fingers gripping his as much as they were able.
    “This will explain it all,” she whispered. “Most importantly my grandson, is that you remember we are more alike than most people are. You will understand. You were born for greatness and that is something people as weak as your father cannot comprehend or accept. You will rise above this and go on to greatness.”
    He looked at the envelope with longing eyes, wanting to tear the yellowing paper to reveal the contents. Her eyes warned him not to.
    “Not here. You must go, my boy , before they return and find you here with me. I know you’re watching us; I can feel you. One day though, you must move on and begin to live your life. The life you were destined for. We are weak, but you are strong. Remember that.”
    “I will,” he whispered back.
    He leaned down to kiss her wrinkled forehead and she squeezed his hand back with all the strength she could muster – which wasn’t much.
    “I love you, G randmother.”
    “And I love you . Now go.”
    As he approached her door he no longer had the need for anything else from this home until he saw the duffle bag hanging on the hook near the door. His mother had made it for him. He grabbed it and darted from the porch before he began missing anything else. He wanted to be new, his own person earning his own belongings.
    He sat in the trees awaiting their return, as he always did. He watched as his mother, father, and siblings descended from the carriage and proceeded into the house. He saw his mother glance around nervously. She did this every single time he saw her outside of the house. She