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I collapse against a metal beam, squeezing my eyes shut. A shooting pain makes my leg spasm and my teeth clench. I press my hand to my ribs and let out a yelp. I need a fucking doctor, but there’s no time.
There’s never enough fucking time. It’s the one thing I’m always out of.
Rocco still hasn’t texted me back. Shouldn’t he have found her already?
I scrub a hand down the front of my face, the realization sinking in. They baited me. They led me on this fucking wild goose chase, made me believe they’d gotten to my dad. They took a gamble that I’d buy their fucking story.
And I did. I made that choice, just as they’d predicted. I chose my father, tried to do right by the man who has always done everything to tear me down because I couldn’t ever live up to his expectations. I betrayed my best friend and the code. And I put everyone at risk.
Nobody is safe. Anyone can be compromised.
For years, I lived in Nico’s shadow, hearing over and over from my father that I’d never amount to anything, that nobody would ever trust me with anything important, that I’d never run the show.
And here I am, trying to save the guy who did nothing but pummel me into the ground and criticize me at every turn.
I’m not a bad person.
I’m just fucked in the head.
Thanks for that, Dad.
I swipe through some screens and dial Sloane’s number again. This time, it doesn’t go straight to voicemail. It just hangs. No bars. No fucking service. Motherfucker! “Ahh! Goddammit!” I scream, hurling my arm backward, ready to let the fucking phone fly and shatter against the concrete foundation.
A loud clatter stops my arm mid-throw, and I twist around in the direction of the noise echoing through the space. Another bang pierces the otherwise still air, the sound coming from the same general direction.
I straighten up, cringing as my spine stretches. I throw an arm over my midsection, hunched over as I creep toward the noises coming from a far end of the space. I shine my flashlight and a few mice scurry past me, the sudden motion making me stumble into a metal beam. “Sonofabitch!” I yell, still creeping. Another clanging sound assaults my ears, and I pick up the pace, not knowing what I’m walking into and as usual, not stopping to strategize.
Attack first, think never.
No weapon. No light. No backup.
How the fuck do I keep finding myself in these situations?
I strain my ears to hear anything, the slightest whimper, anything to indicate that there’s something…or someone…to be found.
I rush through one of the doorways and hold up my trembling hand to shine the light in front of me.
Two seconds too late.
“Fuck!” My head crashes into a thick piece of metal dangling from the ceiling. I jerk backward against a workbench, collapsing against it with a loud groan. My phone clatters to the ground, plunging me into pitch blackness. The force of the hit scrambles my brain, and I blink fast for a few seconds, trying to remember where the hell I even am.
“Mnmph!”
The sound is faint, and for a second, I think it might just be my own moaning that I hear. I clutch my temples, staggering forward, my eyes on the tiny dot of light under my phone. I scoop it up and drag myself to my feet, holding up the light again to find the source of the muffled sounds. A pang of anger jolts me when my eyes finally adjust. “Dad…”
I rush forward, ignoring every agonizing ache and cramp, kneeling beside my father’s bloody and bruised body. At fifty, he’s in pretty good shape. He’s tall, built, and muscular, but no comparison for the bunch of goons that launched their attack on me earlier tonight. Thank God my mother is away in the city this weekend with Shaye. I don’t even want to think about how I’d explain this fucking mess. Dad looks like a prize fighter right now, one eye swollen completely shut. I’ve never seen him look so defeated. He may not always come out on top, but he sure as hell acts the part.
He never folds. He never crumbles. He never shows any sign of weakness.
But now, he just looks like he’s given up, like he’s got nothing left to fight for.
I swallow hard, blinking back the tears that spring to my eyes. How many times had I wished to see this exact scene play out? To see someone torture my father exactly the way he’d always inflicted his own brand of torment on me? And every time I’d imagine it, it would make me feel better. I guess it was my own form of self-healing. And it worked. Every time. But the reality I’m faced with now gives me pause.
Seeing him tied to this chair, wheezing through his nose, unable to draw in a deep breath because of the duct tape plastered across his mouth, blood drizzling down the sides of his face, two stubs on his right hand…it’s exactly as I imagined it. But instead of feeling vindicated, I want fucking retribution on the cocksuckers who did this.
I tried for years to get this man’s approval. I did things that made my stomach turn, all to prove my strength and my loyalty. None of it worked. He never gave me so much as a pat on the back. It was never enough. I was never enough.
His one good eye is half-open and focused on my face, his expression vacant. I take a deep breath. “Dad, I’m gonna pull off the tape, okay? Real fast so it won’t hurt.”
