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Max

I can’t keep my mind busy enough to block out images of Sloane with that douchebag doctor. Is he the one who Rocco saw her with last night? He couldn’t keep his eyes off of her until she saw my face and kind of forgot he was standing there. I noticed it, and then I got the death glare from him which tells me he noticed it, too.

Good. She’s not yours, asshole! Just because I keep fucking things up doesn’t mean she’s yours!

She’s still mine. I can feel it. If I can just explain things—

No! Explain what? That me and my dad are about to be iced because we violated the mafia family code and betrayed everyone? That I have to figure out where Mikey and Gianni are trafficking drugs and women in our neighborhood to stay alive? That by the time the FBI is done with us, it’s gonna feel like we’ve been ass-raped without lube?

How exactly are you supposed to sugar coat all of that?

So I keep thinking. And planning. And obsessing.

None of it helps. I’m no closer to figuring shit out. I can’t trust anyone…not the Doc, not my dad, not even Shaye.

I don’t know what to do. I hate not knowing what to do. I hate waiting around. And what the hell am I even waiting for? A text from the Bonnaros saying, ‘Hey, Max, we’re selling drugs and women. Here’s the address. Come and join the party!’

I mutter to myself as I drive the streets of my neighborhood, not having a real destination, but not wanting to go home and face my father. I flip off the radio, but the ringing in my ears persists.

I want to run, but I can’t. I won’t leave my dad on his own, especially in his condition. Broken ribs, bruises that cover his entire body from the beating he took, broken nose, sawed off fingers…they fucked him up bad. I grip the steering wheel tight, my shoulders slumped. There’s a heaviness in my chest—it’s made up of dread, panic, fear, a whole shit storm of emotions that plague me. Ones I don’t know how to process.

But there are a lot of people counting on me right now.

Gabe counted on me, too…

I slam my fist on the dashboard as I slow at a red light.

And then there’s always the possibility that Nico really doesn’t want me to do anything, that his plans for me have already been set, and I’m the walking dead.

The thoughts pelt me like paint balls. He’s just keeping me occupied out of respect for my sister and until he can come up with a clean way of disposing of me and my dad to make it look like an accident.

The light turns green, and I drive, not paying attention to direction. Just turning the wheel as if on autopilot. I weave through quiet, tree-lined streets until I come to Sloane’s house. I slow to a stop across the street and just sit there, my head in my hands. I know she’s not home, but somehow I feel close to her just being here.

I scrub a hand down the front of my face and recline in my seat. How can I come so close to getting my shit together only to have it blown apart again? I rub my stomach, but the knots are tied too tight. Regrets. I have too many to count.

Funny, it doesn’t seem to change the way I live my life, though.

I turn up the radio and let the pulsating dance beats fill the truck. Thinking only makes me angry. It makes me realize just how out of control I am of my life, and how that control keeps evading me.

How the fuck do you bring another person into that existence? How is that fair?

I bounce my leg to the beat, still staring at Sloane’s place like a stalker.

In my blacked-out Ford Raptor.

That shouldn’t call any unwanted attention to me at all.

I pick up my phone and scroll to the last text message Sloane sent and reread it.

I tried to do the right thing and ended up fucking myself.

That happens a lot, more often than I’d like to admit.

It’s good she has the doctor. I bet he couldn’t hit a beachball with a baseball bat, not that it’s any qualification for him to become a doctor, of course, but maybe that’ll be good for her. If he gets called away in the middle of the night, it’s to save a life, not take one. Or five. The only drugs he messes with are the prescription kind, and I bet he’s never stashed a load of them in someone’s car to make a very fucking stupid point.

He also probably doesn’t have a target on his forehead, which makes him a long-term contender for Sloane’s heart.

Fuck, by this time next week, I might be six feet under.

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
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