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“There.” Ciro only says the one word, but it’s all I need.
My head whips up, and I turn around at the sound of footsteps, almost sagging in relief at the sight of Hale limping back, still holding the gun at his side. He’s favoring his left leg, grimacing, and I have a moment of panic that he got shot.
Then I remember his old injury. He probably exacerbated whatever lingering issues he has in his leg by sprinting flat-out like he did. His face is grim, spattered with blood, as he seeks his new captains out. He doesn’t stop for me, only giving me a fleeting look, barely a flicker of his gaze toward me.
Are you hurt? Are you safe? Are you okay?
I want to rush to him and comfort him, but I know it’s not my place. It’s not the time. Appearances matter in the mafia, and right now, Hale has to keep up an appearance of utter strength.
Damian’s old captains are standing over his body, and when Hale reaches them, his voice is cold as ice. “I don’t know who the fuck that was, but they got away.”
His shoulders are rigid, his back straight, but the hoarseness of his voice makes my heart ache. I know he’s trying to hide his grief, but I can hear it in every syllable.
I listen to Hale give his men orders, soldiers falling into place around him at his command. He looks different, and I know it’s not just the pain twisting inside his soul.
It’s the responsibility.
In the space of a few seconds, the weight of the world just came crashing down on Hale’s shoulders. He’s always been a key part of the Novak Syndicate, trusted and relied upon by his father. But the day when he would inherit the mantle of leader was supposed to be a long way off. Damian was supposed to live for decades longer. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
But that doesn’t matter.
I know better than anyone that there are no guarantees in this world, and that the life you thought you were building for yourself can change in an instant.
I hate that Hale had to learn that lesson too.
Things move quickly, Hale barking out orders as they clear his father’s body and begin to disperse before the cops arrive.
“Lucas, Zaid, take her home,” he says, finally looking at me before shifting his gaze to his closest friend. “Ciro, I need you with me.”
The look in his eyes is like a punch to the gut. It’s empty and haunted, and it takes the air out of my lungs.
And when he turns away from me, he takes a part of my heart with him.
21
Hale
As I settle into the leather chair behind the desk that I’ve never sat behind, numbness spreads through my body. There’s a high frequency buzz that seems to fill the room. Or maybe it’s in my head. I’m not sure wher
e it’s coming from, but it blocks all other noise.
I look down at my hands. They’re still streaked with bits of blood, and red stains mar my shirt too. The tips of my fingers and my palms feel too cold, and the sensation spreads up my arms. The feeling of shock has slowly been overtaking my body since the moment I saw the bullet hit my father’s head, and now the edges of my vision seem to pulse and darken.
Gritting my teeth, I grip the armrests of the chair to stabilize myself, shifting my focus to the duties I have to perform. My father’s body is barely cold. There’s been no ceremony, no solemn moment to mark my rise to authority.
It just happens as it happens—me sliding my ass into this chair, everyone falling back into their places as if nothing has changed.
As if the world hasn’t shifted on its fucking axis.
Never mind grief, never mind death.
Eventually, they’ll read my father’s will, they’ll hold a service in his honor, but until then, business resumes as normal.
I could let my grief swallow me whole right now. I could stop fighting against it and let it drag me under like a choppy sea. But there are more important things that demand my attention.
Like finding out who the fuck did this to my father, and why the fuck they thought they could get away with it. Because whoever did it, they’re going to fucking pay. Not just them. Their sons, daughters, mothers, fathers—anyone associated with the people who did this will be burned to the ground.
Because my father is dead. And I wasn’t ready to lose him.
