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“Watch your fucking mouth.” I point a finger at the ceiling. “That girl up there went through shit you can’t imagine because she just happened to be involved with this family.”
“So, what? We burn everything down because of that? Get your fucking head on straight. This is a mistake.”
“You would know all about mistakes. You’ve made enough of them.”
When he makes a move like he wants to lunge, part of me rejoices. Because I want him to. I want him to give me an excuse to vent the rage that’s been boiling in my gut for days. Rage I haven’t yet found an outlet for.
“Come on,” I taunt, waving him on. “Let’s see what you can do.”
“You’ve needed a good ass kicking for a while,” he growls, breathing heavy, eyeing me as we circle each other in front of the desk. “Maybe it would knock some sense into you, since you’re out of your mind.”
“Are you gonna hit me, or are you going to talk me to death? Because right now, you’re boring the shit out of me.”
“What the hell is going on in here?” Before either of us can throw a punch, Jock steps in between us. I was too busy imagining all the ways I could kill my brother to notice him enter the room. “What is this, twenty years ago? Aren’t you a little too old for this shit?”
“Maybe you should stay out of it,” I warn, staring at my brother over his shoulder.
“And maybe you need to think. Take a breath and think.” The triumphant look on Vincent’s face melts away when Jock looks at him over his shoulder. “Get out of here. Before I decide to hit you myself.” The thing is, only one of us in this room used to box. Out of practice or not, Jock could knock Vincent on his ass without breaking a sweat.
“Thank you for that,” I murmur once we’re alone. “He hasn’t forgotten how to push my buttons.” I pour myself a glass of water from a pitcher at the bar, then drop a couple of ice cubes into the glass.
“With all due respect, I don’t completely disagree with him.”
I turn to him slowly, eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Come again?”
“I think you heard me,” he murmurs, standing at attention, his jaw set in a firm line like he means business. “I think this is a mistake. You’re escalating this thing when what we ought to do is talk about de-escalation.”
“Where is this coming from?”
“It’s coming from knowing you don’t want a war. None of us do. We’re still getting over the last one.” He points past the closed door. “There are guys out there who lost family members last year. You just finished setting up trusts for the kids who lost their dads. How many more of those are you going to set up this time?”
“This time is different.”
“Yes, it is,” he agrees. “This time, you’re letting yourself get lured into it because of somebody who isn’t a member of the family and shouldn’t be here in the first place.”
It’s shocking, really. The rush of boiling, bitter rage that slams into me. “You need to go,” I murmur, my voice shaking. “Now.”
He knows better than to keep pushing, choosing to back away instead. “Give it some thought,” he urges as he opens the door. “Remember what’s really at stake. Is the whole family and your legacy worth this?”
“I said go!” He closes the door an instant before the glass that was in my hand only a moment ago somehow magically shatters against the wood. It does nothing to calm my fury, so I pick up a second glass and throw it, as well. Still, I can hardly breathe for the tightness in my chest.
They want me to let this go. They want me to forget what that son of a bitch did to her because she doesn’t have our last name. I don’t have the words to make them understand—what’s worse, I shouldn’t have to explain myself. Since when does the head of the family have to explain his decisions?
Just thinking about it makes me sweep an arm over the top of my desk, sending papers flying along with my cell and laptop. The door opens behind me. “Get out!” I roar without turning around to see who came in. They’re smart enough to follow instructions.
Damn him. Damn them all. Talking at me like they have any idea what I’m going through. The torture of knowing she’s right above my head, hurting, scared, alone—and being unable to go to her because damn it, I don’t deserve to. I don’t deserve the brief relief of seeing her, hearing her voice, being in her presence.
It was easier when she was too drugged to stay awake. I could sit by the bed and watch over her. I could whisper all the things I can’t say now. How she had to make it through this. How it was all my fault and how I’d never be able to make it up to her. How I want to try.
I still do—but I don’t deserve that, either. Not until that bastard is dead for what he did. Not until he’s bled out every last drop while I’ve watched.
Not until his boss knows exactly what he’s put in motion by making the mistake of fucking with what’s mine.
And these morons want me to stand down. De-escalate. As if that would in any way make up for the damage done. If it was someone they cared about, it would be a different story. They’d be begging me for the go-ahead to blow some brains out.
Lucky for me, I don’t need their go-ahead.
I only need to earn Delilah’s forgiveness. One life at a time, if it comes to that.
