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“Ouch.” The low murmur came from the corner of the hallway.
I hadn’t seen him, but I did now as Lazarus stepped out of the shadows. Anger burned through me, blazing like a comet across a darkened sky. My fists clenched and my breaths deepened. I wanted to introduce my knuckles to his face, wanted to unleash the hurricane inside. Ineededit. So. Fucking. Much.
Instead, I just tore my gaze away.
I’m disappointed I didn’t hear it from you…
Disappointed…
Disappointed. Disappointed. Fucking…disappointed.
Movement blurred into nothing. Because nothing was all I saw now. Not Anna…not my mother. Just darkness hovering at the rise of the steps. I shoved through the door and made my way to my building once more…flickers of last night pushing in. Blood pooling black against the filthy concrete floor.
Just a second son…right?
Not like they needed him, anyway. Not like they needed any of us. First son. Second son.Dead son.Nothing but pawns on the board. Pawns. But never the King…because to surrender the throne meant loss of control.
And that will never happen.
Not for a Salvatore.
Not for a Rossi.
Not for any of them.
I strode through the doors, not giving a fuck about Pavlov or Max in that moment, and smashed my fist against the button for the elevator. They stayed back…hovering just out of view.
I’m disappointed I didn’t hear it from you…
My father’s words played on repeat as the elevator doors opened and I made my way into the apartment above once more. Leale gave me achuffand looked at me warily before advancing slowly. I clenched my jaw, hating that savage part of me.
In that moment I was too much like my father. Too violent…toolimitless. All that hate. All that rage seething in my blood. I wasn’t like the others, I didn’t have another to share the poison of my father, not another brother or a sister. It was just me, just the son.
I strode to the counter. Two empty bottles sat there, glaring like a spotlight on my weakness. It should be empty clips, the bullets buried in the bodies of all those who'd had a hand in my mother’s death. But it wasn’t. My clips were still fresh, still full and waiting. I grabbed a bottle from the cupboard, bypassing the stack of food.
What was food when I could survive on rage?
I poured a glass and drank…and waited.
The clock moved painfully slowly, the numbers blurring as I paced, ate…then shoved my fingers down my throat and bent over the toilet. I drank once more, swiping my lips with the back of my hand. Desperate. That’s what I was,desperate.
Until finally, the hum of the elevator sounded and the doors opened.
I turned at the heavy thud of footsteps as my father cut across the living room and stopped at the wall of glass overlooking the island. I waited for him to speak, waited for him to saysomething.
But he didn’t. He just stared.
“The funeral,” I started.
“Will be taken care of.”
I knew better than to offer him a drink. Right now, the chopper would be refueled and on standby. I'd bet he couldn’t wait to get away from me. He didn’t look me in the eyes when he turned. He never did anymore…not since Mom…
“I sent you here to make sure the Shaw bitch was under control.”
A fucking fist slammed against the inside of my chest. But I swallowed that word…bitch.
“So, when I hear that Dillon was demanding she leave, after begging me to send her here, it set off some red fucking flags.”
