My Stepbrother's Dirty Little Secret novel Chapter 750

Chapter 750

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The smallest boy let out a howling laugh, “I always thought you were pretending all these years.”

Giovanni smiled because everyone else was smiling. His jaw hurt from holding it there.

One of them pulled a crumpled receipt from his pocket, “Here,” he shoved it into Giovanni’s hand, Tell us what this says.”

Giovanni stared at it, the letters swam. He turned the paper upside down without meaning to.

The group watched him.

One snorted, “He doesn’t even know which way is up.”

Another doubled over, “I’m going to hell for laughing.”

“No, you’re not,” the tallest one grinned, “God’s probably laughing too.”

Someone reached over and gently took the paper from Giovanni’s hands, not to help him but to wave it in front of everyone else.

“Look at this. Our fearless gangster. He can spot an undercover cop from fifty meters away, he tapped the receipt, “…but this? This is his final boss.”

The laughter echoed down the alley.

“You know what scares me?”

“What?”

“One day we’re all going to get arrested.”

“Why?”

“Because Gio’s going to be the lookout.”

The group laughed, “He’ll be standing there screaming…”

One of them put on a confused voice, “I don’t know which street we’re on.

Another chimed in.

“Boss, I lost the warehouse.”

“How?””

“The sign beat me.”

Someone slapped Giovanni on the back, hard, “You know what’s really impressive?”

“What?”

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“You’ve managed to survive sixteen years while being too dumb to read a bakery sign,” he shook his head, “That’s fucking talent.”

Another nodded solemnly, “I’ve met stray dogs smarter than you. They at least know which street they’re on.”

The tallest one looked him up and down, “If I ever get shot…” he pointed at Giovanni, “Don’t call him.”

“Why?”

“He’ll read the medicine bottle upside down and finish the job.”

The alley erupted again. Giovanni laughed with them, a little.

The tallest boy smiled, “We love you, Gio. You’re family,” then his smile widened, “But if brains were money, you couldn’t afford a loaf of bread.”

The laughter started all over again. Giovanni kept smiling. It was easier than letting them see what every joke was doing because each laugh sounded like every teacher who had sighed at him. Every kid who had called him stupid. Every night his parents had told him he was worthless.

He had come here thinking he’d finally found people who didn’t care.

Instead…

They had simply found a kinder way to remind him.

To them, he wasn’t Giovanni.

He was the joke they all happened to like.

Giovanni | Age 18 | Brooklyn, New York | Associate, Cosa Nostra

Giovanni sat on the edge of the examination table, his broad shoulders tense beneath a worn leather jacket.

The sharp smell of disinfectant burned his nose. He hated places like this. They reminded him of school. Of teachers. Of people looking at him with pity or disgust.

The doctor sat across from him, flipping through a folder. He looked to be in his late fifties, with silver hair and round glasses balanced low on his nose.

He studied the notes for another moment before looking up, “Giovanni?”

Giovanni folded his arms, “Yeah.”

“I’ve spent the last two appointments evaluating you.”

Giovanni waited.

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The doctor smiled kindly, “I know you’ve been worried.”

“Worried?” Giovanni let out a short laugh. “I’m trying to find out what the fuck’s broken.”

The doctor shook his head, “Nothing is broken.”

Giovanni’s expression didn’t change.

The doctor continued carefully, “You have dyslexia.”

Giovanni stared at him, “What’s that?”

“It’s a learning disorder.”

“No disease?”

“No.”

“No damage in my head?”

“No.”

“No tumor?”

“No,” the doctor folded his hands together, “Dyslexia is a learning difference. Your brain processes written language differently from most people’s.”

Giovanni frowned, “So…” he searched for the words, “What’s the treatment, Doc?”

“There isn’t one.”

Giovanni blinked, “I asked for the treatment.”

The doctor held his gaze, “And I answered. There isn’t one.”

The room fell quiet. Giovanni’s jaw tightened, “You telling me people spend years becoming doctors,” he gestured around the office, “…all this fucking equipment…” he pointed toward the shelves lined with medical books, “…and you don’t know how to fix reading?”

The doctor’s expression remained calm, “It doesn’t work like that.”

“Then tell me how it works.”

“Dyslexia isn’t something that needs to be cured.”

Giovanni stared at him, for a second, he thought he’d misheard, “Say that again.”

“It doesn’t need to be cured.”

A humorless laugh escaped Giovanni, “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

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“You think not being able to read is normal?”

P

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