Undeserving (Undeniable #5)(113)

Tears burning in my eyes, emotion lodged in my throat, I could hardly speak. "So she didn't come back?" I managed to ask. Deuce's hand on my back began to move in soothing circular motions.

Preacher stared off across the room. "I was a mess-couldn't sleep, couldn't eat. I had Tiny stayin' at the apartment, gave you to Joe and Sylvie, and I went lookin' for her. Looked everywhere. Even filed a missing person's report. That's when the Feds came knockin', tryin' to say I did somethin' to her. And that's when I found out who she really was."

Preacher released a chest-rattling sigh. "Elizabeth Stephens-that was her real name. Born and raised in Southern California. Parents were Linda and Daniel Stephens-blue-collar family. Daniel died in a car crash when she was only three years old. Fell asleep at the wheel. Linda worked odd jobs for a few years until she remarried some hotshot real estate developer from Newport Beach. Name was Bruce Holtz. Guy was loaded. And a real fuckin' scumbag."

Listening to Preacher, it sounded as though he'd memorized a file on my mother-which, knowing my father, he probably had.

"A few women filed rape charges against him over the years." His eyes on the ceiling, Preacher shook his head. "Ain't nothin' ever came of any of it-the charges were always dropped. Back then, things being the way they were, him being as rich as he was, I figured either nobody believed those poor girls, or he'd paid ‘em off."

"Rape," I repeated numbly. "Did he-"

"She never told me," Preacher interrupted. "But with him bein' such a fuckin' scumbag, and her bein' so damn scared of bein' sent home, it wasn't hard to put it all together."

I closed my eyes and just breathed-an attempt to clear my head of the uncomfortable, painful images filling it. Just like my mother, I knew what it was like to be violated by someone who'd been like family to me. Had she blamed herself, too?

It certainly wasn't something I was glad to share with her, but it did help me understand why she'd been so secretive, and why she lied to everyone. Even the fear that had caused her to betray Preacher to the FBI made sense.

"What happened to Holtz?" It was Deuce who spoke. The hand on my back stilled, and I opened my eyes to find my husband staring at my father, a menacing gleam in his eyes.

Looking between them, seeing a similar expression on Preacher's face, I swallowed hard. It was easy to forget the kind of men they were-how cold and detached they could be when it came to those who'd wronged them or dared to hurt the people they loved.

Preacher smiled faintly-a slight baring of teeth. "He died the followin' year. Got carjacked at gunpoint, and took a bullet in each eye."

"The followin' year?" Deuce sounded amused.

Preacher's expression turned indignant. "I couldn't do anything right away. The club, the goddamn Feds-I had too much heat on me. One wrong move and I was goin' away for life."

"How'd you get the FBI off your back?"

"I made them an offer they couldn't refuse."

"You helped them take down the Columbo family, didn't you?"

Preacher shrugged. "They wanted a notch on their belt and the recognition, and I figured I was better off havin' the Feds owe me one, rather than them beatin' down my door every other second."

"Jesus, Fox. You're half the fuckin' reason the Italian's operation fell apart." Deuce sounded impressed-a rare occurrence.



       
         
       
        

"And her mother-my grandmother?" I interrupted, faltering over my words. I couldn't have cared less about anything to do with the mob or the FBI. Tears were still threatening and I was finding it increasingly hard to hold them back. Deuce's hand moved from my back to my shoulder and gave me a comforting squeeze.

Preacher's eyes shot to mine. "Don't you cry for her, baby girl," he growled. "That bitch wasn't your grandmother; she was a goddamn drunk and a piece of shit. I kept tabs on her over the years. She got all that bastard's money and drank herself to death. Died when you were fourteen. Was a better death than she deserved, and she damn sure wasn't worth your tears."

I shook my head, and a single tear slipped free. I wasn't crying for her. I wasn't even crying for my mother.

I was crying for Preacher.

I'd thought I'd known who he was. But I hadn't. I hadn't known him at all.

It isn't easy to see your parents as people, separate from you. To think that they once had a life before you, that they'd lived and loved and lost, and everything in between, all before you'd ever existed.

The Preacher I knew, the one I'd loved my entire life, was a driving force in the criminal underground. He was a hard man, steadfast, who brooked no arguments from anyone-with the minor exception of those he loved.