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“What’s your point?”
I swallowed down the frustrated rage trying to claw to the surface, clutching the bottom of the table to keep from flying over it at him. For a guy who clearly cared so much about his sons, he was being so fucking dense about this.
“My point is that he’s been The Bone Man for years.”
I let that sink in.
“And has he ever once shirked his duties to his family? To the Saints?”
He didn’t like being reasoned with.
“He’ll resent you for this,” I continued. “Whether he understands your reasoning or not. His music is a part of him.”
There was so much of him, of his soul, his heart, in every word he sang. It would be a fucking crime to stop him from creating.
“You wouldn’t chop off his arm, would you?”
“You don’t understand our ways.”
“I don’t?” It was my turn to scoff.
Diesel’s attention wandered, catching on something to our left, and I followed his line of sight to where Corvus was standing with the guys again near the bar. Grey pointed at us, and Corvus lifted his head, going white at the sight of me sitting across from his father.
“He asked me not to do this,” I added. “But I care about him. I care that he’s hurting.”
Diesel looked doubtfully at me but said nothing.
This was the part my body physically fought against me saying, but Corvus and the shit with Primal Ethos was only part of the problem.
There was a rift between this father and his sons. And a large part of it was my fault.
A bigger part of his was his own damned fault, but regardless of who was to blame, I wouldn’t take sons away from a father who would do literally anything in this world to keep them safe.
If only I’d been so lucky.
“All I’m asking is for you to consider what forcing him to stop might do to him. He can have both.”
“If that’s all—”
“I also know that I have been the cause of a lot of tension between you and them.”
He lifted a brow.
“Even though the vast majority of that shit is your own fucking fault,” I added, completely unable to help myself, then I sighed. “I don’t want to carve a rift between you.”
“Oh?”
“Which is why, I’m…”
He tipped his head slightly to one side, light eyes glinting with triumph.
“You know what, I’m not going to fucking say it,” I decided. “I’m not sorry. I know you don’t trust me. You don’t like me. And frankly, I don’t give a shit. I don’t need you to like me. But I will try harder to not want to slit your throat… for them.”
A slow smile spread on his mouth. “All right.”
“All right?”
A Saint approached the table, clearly drunk, with two shots held between his fingers. He set them on the table in front of Diesel, sloshing half their contents over the wooden top. “Hey, Dies,” he said. “Happy Birthday man! Have a shot with me.”
