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My father is right there with him, his eyes filled with fucking rage. We’re in his office, adorned with dark furniture and blood red artwork, fitting for the decisions that are made here.
Life and death is decided between these four walls. Cases are pleaded and decisions are made. A judgement can be made against you at the whim of the man who will murder you because the office is too hot.
Between being beat up, even though they don’t know the truth, and now the shootout at the harbor—it’s clear that war has begun.
Not to mention, half our shipment of coke is gone.
That’s a lot of money out the window.
“We need to strike back.” Declan is eager to escalate the situation. His normal response has always been violence, a trait inherited from our father. We learned at a young age the appropriate comeback was always revenge.
When we were ten, I stole his baseball. His first reaction was to march to the kitchen and grab a butcher knife from the block and yield it. He said: “Give it back or I’ll cut you.” Even as kids he was fucking ruthless. Our older brother, Niall was even worse.
I was surrounded by sociopaths.
Still am.
I run a hand through my unruly hair. My head is fucking pounding. I want more than anything to be back on my couch with an icepack on my ribs doped up on codeine, but I need to be here for this. I need to be the sound voice that prevents an all out war.
Most of all, I need to make sure Gemma isn’t killed in the crossfire.
“What’s the plan then?” I ask, raising my gaze to meet my father’s.
He hums, his eyes looking over my head in a thoughtful gaze. It’s nearly a minute later when he finally responds. “Kill ‘em all.”
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nbsp; A sinister smile spreads across Declan’s lips and I know I’m fucked. “Music to my fucking ears, Da.”
I release a mouthful of air. My palm is tapping against my leg in rapid succession, a nervous tick of mine that takes effort to get under control. I press it tightly to my leg and take a deep breath.
“How?” I ask. “How will we do it.”
My father sits back in the leather chair behind his desk. He looks like the emperor of death in this office. Boston is his empire and we’re all just his subjects.
Declan is on the edge of his seat, waiting for permission to strike. He wants to see the blood, hell, I think Declan would bathe in it if he could.
“I want a hit on Gian DelGado.” My father finally says, “The asshole wants to take over that family, give him the death of a boss.”
Well, fuck.
I’m twisted.
My own selfish need for revenge wants me to let the bastard die. I replay the image of him entering our hotel room after his men tackled me to the ground. He had a fucking arrogance about him in a three-piece suit on a Saturday morning casually strolling inside to ruin his sister’s day.
Would he have let me live?
Probably not. If Gemma hadn’t pleaded and cried, I think I’d be at the bottom of the Dorchester Bay with a cinderblock tied to my ankle.
But then I think of Gemma, how she cried in my arms at the mention of her mother. I don’t think she could handle the loss of another family member. If she knew that I was sitting here contemplating it, what would she think of me?
Would I be worthy of her love then?
I’m barely worthy of being loved now. I don’t think I could live with myself if I let this happen. I scrub a hand down my face and over my beard. To protect her though, I have to betray my family.
That thought turns my stomach sour. The Reuben I had for lunch threatens to come back up.
I can’t win here. I either protect her and betray my family or let this hit happen and ruin her life. Neither option sits well with me.
