“We’re done here.” Dad crossed his arms and glared while the doctor grabbed her briefcase as well as the thick manila envelope he’d given her, and walked out of our house.
“Doctors don’t know everything. The way I see it,” Dad snorted, “is you’ll be the best mafia boss in the history of the family.”
“How do you figure?” My voice dripped with sarcasm.
Dad’s grin was evil as he leaned in and patted me on the back. “You’d kill your own blood to get ahead and not even blink. Apparently, you’re more useful than I thought.”
I froze in my chair. I wanted to run, I wanted to scream but again, I felt nothing. It was as if all the darkness inside kept swallowing up the guilt and shame I should have been feeling. If anything, I was in a constant state of loss.
“So this girl.” Dad licked his lips. “The one who eats lunch with you.”
My head snapped up. Of course he’d know about Trace. After all, he was the dean of Eagle Elite. And it was for that very reason that Nixon was protecting her. He knew a pretty girl like Trace would appeal to my father’s tastes. Not that my father would ever cross Nixon, but still.
“How old is she?”
“Old,” I replied fast. “Eighteen, too old for you.”
He moved to slap me but I caught his wrist in my hand and flipped him so fast against the table that I heard his arm crack. Good, let him feel pain.
“You should probably take the doctor’s advice.” I kept twisting. “After all, I’m about five minutes away from losing my shit. Who knows what I’ll do. Remember, you said I’d kill my own family—don’t test me.” I released his arm and stomped off.
My head pounded with the memory—it seemed like an eternity ago. I’d walked away from my dad that day feeling more empowered than I had in a long time. I’d actually fought him; I’d threatened him.
A smile curved across my lips—hell yeah, that was the day I’d become invincible, and lost my moral compass.
I’d seen Trace the next day at school and noticed something was different. Nixon’s eyes were lingering on her, as well as Chase’s, but when she looked at me? Nothing. It was as if she could sense my darkness. Which pissed me off. She didn’t know me! Maybe that’s why I did it, why I tried to scare her away. If I couldn’t have her—the one girl that for the first time in my life made me want to smile—then I didn’t want anyone else to have her, either.
And that’s when I’d felt a snap.
The girl I’d raped. That same girl. She hadn’t been wanted by the client after all—just like Trace wouldn’t be wanted by Nixon or Chase if I did something to prevent it. If they could see that she wasn’t deserving. Matters were made infinitely worse when it was her fault I was excommunicated from Nixon’s inner circle. After the hell I’d been through—every sacrifice I’d made—and in the end I had nothing, all because of her. The hatred that I felt for her in that moment was stronger than anything I’d ever felt toward my dad. I wanted her to suffer because she’d stolen my family from me. I’d never loved my dad, but Nixon? Chase? Tex? We’d been blood brothers until that bitch had stepped in. I lost it—all of it.
Bile rose in my throat as I puked up blood. For the first time in seven years, I cried like a baby; the only sound in that hollow room was my own screams and whimpers. The terror on her face, her soft pleadings, and my hands, my bare hands ripping at her clothes. My teeth chattered as the memory hit me with a force so strong that I was gasping for breath. I did that. Not my dad. Me.
If I could just go back and fix things I would—and that’s why I did what I did. Because I couldn’t go back in time. That’s why I was lying in that chair. I sucked in a deep breath—they’d never know the full truth—I couldn’t let them, but I knew exactly how I could redeem the darkness my life represented.
After all—in every redemption story a sacrifice needs to be made. Maybe the sacrifice needed to be me.
Chapter Eighteen
Chase
I felt like shit. All day I alternated between wanting to shoot Nixon and wanting to shoot myself. To say my day sucked would be like saying the Sicilians were only mildly intimidating.
FYI, they were terrifying. Many a man shit their pants in their presence and I was living in my own personal hell.
How did I get so lucky?
I knew I shouldn’t have told Nixon, but I also knew I couldn’t lie to him even if I wanted to. He knew me too damn well and he could always smell a rat or liar hundreds of feet away. Which left me with blatant honesty.