All This Hunger

When you’re always fucked up, no one ever knows if you are. That’s what I tell myself as I swallow down two squares of my special chocolate bar. It tastes like shit, but actual shrooms taste like absolute shit. I can only have them in a smoothie or burger or something. But I don’t have time for that now. I’m supposed to be downstairs… eight minutes ago. Fuck. I hope these kick in fast.

I play with my curls in the mirror for a few seconds, silently begging them to form some kind of pretty shape. After another minute—and a spray bottle filled with water and leave-in conditioner—I’m satisfied. I take off my robe and straighten my gown. I’ve always thought I looked good in green. It’s silk. Soft.

I slide in my small gold hoops as I step into my heels.

With one last look in the mirror, I study my face. After a few seconds, I have to look away.

I look like him.

I step out of my room before that thought can dig in and rot me from the inside out. Elio waits at the bottom of the staircase, posture straight, suit crisp—navy with a black shirt, no tie. At nineteen, he looks like he belongs in this world more than I ever did. My baby brother, all grown up and dangerous in his own right.

“Took you long enough,” he says, arms crossed, but there’s a hint of a smile pulling at his mouth.

I smirk. “Sorry, Lio. I didn’t know you were waiting.”

“I forgive you,” he sighs, dramatically, offering his arm. “Let’s go.”

Elio and I—we forgive fast. We’ve both seen what holding onto things does to people. I slide my arm through his and let myself breathe for a second. Even though I’m older, I’ve always felt safest beside him. Like no matter how much I unravel, he’d hold me together.

“Happy birthday, Eden,” he says as we approach the glass doors leading to the backyard. “You look beautiful, as always.”

I glance up at him, warmth tugging at my lips. “Thank you.”

But the moment we reach the door, I stop cold.

Salvatore is standing just inside the glass, like a shadow carved from marble. Waiting.

His hands are tucked casually into his pockets, suit dark as sin, collar sharp, jaw tighter than usual. His hazel eyes track me the second I come into view—dissecting, measuring, like he’s trying to figure out what kind of disaster I’ve brought to the party tonight.

“You’re late,” he says, voice low and smooth.

“Ugh, be quiet, Tory,” Elio cuts in, annoyed. “Girls always take a long time to get ready. Everyone knows that.”

Salvatore doesn’t respond. His gaze flicks to Elio, then back to me. It lingers. Heavy. Dismissive. Like always.

I exhale and step past him, letting the door swing open.

The backyard is a dreamscape. Or a nightmare, depending on your angle.

Warm golden lights drip from the trees like honey. Soft music from a string quartet floats above the clink of crystal glasses. White orchids bloom from towering centerpieces. There’s a bar glowing like a jewel on one side, a champagne tower gleaming on the other.

The guest list is a fever dream of power and polished smiles. Politicians in slick suits. CEOs who own things no one should. Old money families pretending they don’t notice the security detail hovering near the perimeter. One man kisses my mother’s hand like she’s some kind of duchess. Another nods respectfully at my father like he’s still the one running things.

But they all look at Salvatore when they speak.

He’s the one they defer to now. The real authority in this house. The one they trust with favors and secrets and things that don’t belong on paper.

And there—standing by the fountain like a damn statue—is my mother. Graceful, cold, perfect. Her dress is blood-red satin, fitted like armor. Her mouth moves when she speaks, but her eyes stay dead. My stepfather is beside her, hulking and unreadable, nodding at someone I don’t recognize—probably another man with offshore accounts and a God complex.

This is what family looks like, in our world: expensive, dangerous, and hollow.

“Sorry, sir,” I say, voice dripping with sarcasm. “I actually have a fucking life outside of showing up for Daddy.”

Salvatore doesn’t even blink. His expression stays locked in that cool, detached blankness, like I’m a mild inconvenience in a perfectly planned schedule.

Then he turns and walks away.

Just like that. Like bickering with me would be beneath him.

The worst part? It probably is.

I watch him melt into the crowd of suits and diamonds, all those men who grin too wide and women who air-kiss like it means something. He fits right in. A little too well. Sometimes I wonder if he’ll end up just like his father.

Incapable of remorse, of any kind of emotion.

And I hate that I care enough to wonder. That I care enough to hope he doesn’t. And for his sake.

“Don’t let him upset you,” Elio says, breaking into my thoughts. “Not on your birthday.”

I muster a smile, small and forced. I don’t let anything upset me. It just does.

“Okay,” I lie.

Swallowing down the wave of loneliness swelling in my chest, I will my feet toward my mother.

Thankfully, since I haven’t eaten much, the chocolate’s kicked in quickly. As I move closer, I take slow, deliberate breaths. I blink—and the world sharpens. Everything glows a little more brightly, a little more golden. Like I’ve stepped into someone else’s dream.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, leaning in to offer the concept of a hug—just enough to look polite.

She doesn’t lean back. Just scans me, slow and surgical, eyes dragging from my heels to my hair. Then she turns away, speaking over her shoulder like I’m staff.

“Why didn’t you do your hair?”

I blink at her. “I did do it. It’s called a wash and go.”

She barely glances back. “Well, next time go for a more elegant style, yes? It’s your birthday party, Eden.”

I roll my eyes, biting back the thousand things I want to scream.

Yeah, it’s my birthday party. Mine.

So why do I feel like a dressed-up afterthought?

Why can’t I even wear my hair how I want?

It’s not worth the fight, so I walk away.

It’s not worth getting angry.

Except it is. I just pretend it’s not.

I barely make it two steps before I slam into Sergio. Of course. My stepfather. The human stain.

His vomit-green eyes drag across me—slow, familiar, revolting. Not like my mother’s critical brown ones. Hers cut. His burn. Like hot grease on my skin.

His big, hairy hands grab my waist like he’s steadying me, but I know what it is. A claim.

“Woah there, pesca,” he says, smiling that slick, camera-ready smile. “Hope you haven’t had too much to drink.”

I place my hands over his, soft and deliberate. My fingertips buzz.

I look him dead in the eyes, and then I snap.

His middle and ring fingers bend back hard in my grip.

Quick. Ugly. Perfect.

“CAZZO!” he howls, stumbling back, flailing like an idiot, switching between hands like pain is playing ping pong with him.

I tilt my head. Smile just enough.

“Papa,” I say, sweet and empty, “are you okay?”

He looks at me with pure hate. The kind that festers. But there’s something else in his eyes now, too. A quiet little promise.

Go ahead, I think. Fucking try me.