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"I think when he started to prospect, then got patched in, that she expected him to be a bit different. There is a lot of responsibility that comes with that. And danger," she added, wincing a little, even after all these years of getting used to the danger factor with my father's lifestyle.
That was true.
I guess I'd always known that Niro was going to become a biker. He looked up to his father so much. And he had never shown any interest in heading off to college when many of us started doing so. Of course he was going to prospect when he was old enough.
That said, I guess I'd always compartmentalized the idea of the boy I'd spent all my time with growing up somehow becoming a much more hardened arms-dealing biker. Someone with a gun always strapped to his body. Someone who likely had to use that gun a time or two, his fists hundreds of times.
That was the life he chose, though.
And of course it changed him.
If not in a big way, then in many small ways.
"I'm sure he is still the same old Niro underneath it all," I said, thinking out loud. Hoping out loud. I didn't want to think of a world without my version of Niro in it. It would certainly be an uglier place.
"Maybe," my mother said, nodding. "But people can and do change, honey," she reminded me. "Some circumstances change people forever."
She didn't say it, but the words were there, hanging in the air.
Like with your father.
Who'd been through something so awful that it had turned him into a different person.
"But he is different now again," I reminded her. "After he met you."
"True," she agreed, nodding. "Sometimes some people can come into your life, or back into your life, and remind you of who you are always meant to be. Maybe this is like that. I mean, you were a huge part of his life, Andi. And then one day, apparently, you weren't. I can see how having you back might, you know, fill the hole you left."
I wasn't so sure.
I mean, after a certain point, didn't your personality become your personality? Was it even possible to change back?
I didn't have answers to those kinds of questions. And a part of me didn't even want to consider them. Because there was always a chance that whatever this change was with Niro that my father didn't even want to talk to me about was permanent. That he wasn't the person I used to know. That no matter how much I was around, nothing would change.
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, though," my mother said, patting my hand, moving to stand up. "For all we know, your father doesn't know what he's talking about. You would know better than anyone else. And you won't be able to tell until you see him again. So there's no reason to stress about it all right now. How about we go and greet all the animals instead?"
When left with the choice of contemplating a possibly heartbreaking situation, or spending time with something fluffy or feathery or even scaley, I would choose the animals every time.
So that was what I did.
But when I went to bed later that night, I couldn't stop my mind from racing, from replaying old conversations, remembering cherished times.
And worrying myself sick that the person I'd shared all that with didn't exist anymore.
I guessed only time would tell.
Chapter Three
Niro
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Ward growled, grabbing me by the back of my neck, tossing me backward against the cage, making it rattle loud enough to make my teeth ache from it. "Your father was reckless. But you? You have a death wish."
The adrenaline from the fight waning, I could feel all the places my much larger opponent had landed strikes. My ribs ached. My cheek felt swollen. There was a trickle of blood sliding down my cheek. And my knuckles were all cracked open, a little bloody, but so hardened from the years in this cage that they didn't get all dramatic when I used—or even overused—them anymore.
I was half his age, but my hands were already looking worse than my father's. My father, who had worked at this illegal underground fighting club for years before he joined up with the Henchmen. My father who had been trained and reined in by the very man standing before me right then.
Ross Ward.
Tall and fit, in an expensive suit, he was likely every bit as intimidating now as he had been back then. Even though he'd mostly handed off his business to his son, Jax, at this point.
He was still around, checking on the books, vetting the fighters.
And, apparently, scolding me.
Jax was there too, looking much like his father with no gray in his dark hair, his eyes barely paying me any mind as he sorted some file he had open in his lap and lounged in the leather chairs in one of the many seating areas around the cage.
