FERDINAND
Ferdinand hated Michael.
Not sometimes, now, always.
Michael was always better than him. Better grades, better behavior. The epitome of what a Catholic boy should be, a shining example to every young man in the church and an inspiration to the women who had been raised beside him. Even his father liked him better than Ferdinand, and he couldn't put up with that--he was the principal's son, and he had to honor the name of the De Luca's and the Christian seminary.
But Ferdinand was sure that Michael Saint Claire was no saint, no matter how much every atom in the universe tried to prove otherwise.
He just didn't expect to find Michael, the golden child, the apple of his father's eye, on his knees in a filthy bar bathroom.
