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Every. Single. One.
I’ve never been so conflicted in my entire life. I was completely wrapped up in this woman, leaving meetings to protect her because I couldn’t stop the urge from overwhelming me, taking her to another meeting so she wouldn’t be out of my sight, and yet… here we are.
I want to hate her, with every fiber of my being, that is how we were raised, and the fact that she’s still breathing right now is a miracle in itself. Anyone else and they would never have left that restaurant alive.
My fingers twitch in my lap as I continue to stare at her, the overwhelming need to wipe my hand down my face almost unbearable, but I refuse to let her get a glimpse of what she’s doing to me.
I’m still struggling to look at her and not just see the beautiful Ava that we initially met. She doesn’t exist, not really, but I’ll never hate that version of her. In that moment, even if it was beyond brief, we’ll always have the memories.
The pain I see swirling around in her eyes tells me there’s more to her past than we know. The way she spills little truths about her past, her words about her fear of her father outweighing anything and anyone else confirms she’s not lying.
As I glance at her now, sitting perfectly still in her seat with her hands resting in her lap, she appears calm and unrattled. What I wouldn’t give to see what is going through her mind right now. She’s a master at hiding her emotions, and it’s driving me insane.
How much fear must she have felt to kill her own father?
Our dear old papa wasn’t the best, not at all. He was a bad example most of the time, putting us in shitty situations, but I sense her pain runs much deeper than that.
It doesn’t mean anything though. It shouldn’t. Yet here I am, with an overwhelming need to reach across the table, pull her sweet ass into my lap and cradle her in my arms. Instead, I focus on the matter at hand, and that's delving into the questions we have for her now that the revelations of yesterday have dwindled down a little.
I don’t think I’ll ever truly get over the surprise of her being Totem’s daughter, but I can at least think past it now.
My hands clench in my lap again, the need to do something,anything, right now taking over, so I shake my head, sitting taller in my seat as Matteo finally joins us at the table. With the three of us focusing on her, you would expect Wren to falter, but she doesn’t miss a beat.
I can feel Nonna glaring at us from where she still stands by the oven, but for now, she’s keeping her distance. Although I get the sense she’ll jump in if necessary, just not likely to our defense. Especially since she has taken a liking to our new guest.
Enzo adjusts himself in his seat beside me, undoing the next button on his shirt before wiping his fingers across his chin like he does when he’s deep in thought. But it’s Matteo who continues to guide the situation.
“Now, we’re going to ask you some questions about Totem, and you’re going to answer them.” I almost roll my eyes at the tone he uses, like she’s a fool who needs time to process what he’s saying, when all she’s actually shown us is that she’s resilient, smart, and somewhat calculated.
Wren doesn’t respond, doesn’t move an inch, except for flicking her gaze over the three of us once more. If anyone were to walk in now and see the situation from the outside looking in, they would likely assume that Wren is actually the one conducting the conversation. There’s power in her posture, fueled by the pain that ripples through her veins, and I get a sense of pride from that for some reason.
Matteo taps his fingers on the table as he thinks for a moment, before diving straight in. “What control did Totem gain over Featherstone before you killed him?”
A scoff slips from her lips as she shakes her head at my brother, the corners of her lips tilting up in a mocking smirk. “None.”
My jaw clenches at the short and blunt answer she offers, while Enzo works to cover his mouth to hide the grin that is likely taking over his face. Matteo remains stoic, just like Wren, the two of them perfectly mastering their poker faces.
“We know he gained control of the games.”
I recall that fact, the news circulating like wildfire around us. Apparently, part of being a bloodline within Featherstone meant taking part in trials and tests that, if won, can make you a member of the Ring, aka the leaders of Featherstone.
We never truly got the hows and the whys of it all, his death coming soon after, but among those he had made promises to, it was a win everyone was cheering about.
“He didn’t gain control of shit,” Wren says with a burst of laughter, her head falling back as she moves her hands over her hair. “He literally gate-crashed one of the trials, shot someone in the shoulder and fled like the weak man he was.” Her words quickly turn to acid on her tongue as she lifts her head to look at us once more.
I try to process her words and the fact that’s not what I was expecting to hear, and Enzo must agree because he chimes in too.
“You’re lying.”
Wren whips her gaze to his, staring straight into his eyes without missing a beat. “What do I have to gain from lying? The man is dead, and I’m not about rewriting someone’s history.” She lifts her hands from her lap, placing them on the table in front of her as she casts her gaze over each of us. “If you’re at war, in a trial, or under attack, and one of your brothers goes down, what do you do?”
My head tilts to the side slightly as I observe her. “What do you mean?” The question falls from my lips before I can stop it, but when neither of my brothers interjects, I know they’re just as confused as I am.
“I mean, you’re in a blood bath, your brother is bleeding out on the floor surrounded by gunfire, men are continuing to drop around you, yet you’re luckily unscathed. What do you do?”
“Get my brother out of there.” The answer tumbles from my lips, my filter not working as I blurt the truth. Her lips form a thin line as she nods slightly, bringing her hands to her lap again.
“I was part of the trial that my father interrupted. Smeared in blood and surrounded by people he forced me to make my enemies. Yet when it got too much and he ran, do you think he made sure to take me with him?” Her tone is answer enough. That would be a firm no, and it makes my heart ache for her.
