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The joint torture session Mav and I hosted with the fucker ensured he paid for his sins. There was barely anything left of him when we were done. However, prior to that, he managed to orchestrate several unauthorized deals with the Russian Bratva on my unknowing behalf, all in exchange for taking out Mav. Their assassination attempt was unsuccessful, but their leader, Yuri, expected the terms of the arrangement to still be met. They wanted an exclusivity contract as my distributor. When I tried to back out, it earned me nothing more than a laundry list of headaches and a bullet to the leg.
To meet the conditions, I had to back out of a deal I was in the process of brokering. Mav, who was on the fast track out of this lifestyle, abandoned his dreams of going legit and met the terms of the contract with my original distributor. The business he offered them is the only reason they didn’t put me six feet under. To make matters worse for Mav, Yuri then sank his claws into him as well, forcing him to launder money through some of his clubs.
Why did my rival forfeit his chance at a one-way ticket out of this shitshow and save my ass? Because the love he has for my sister far outweighs the hate he has for me. Joanna—or Baby J, as I call her—and I are as close as they come. He saved my life so she wouldn’t have to bury me, not that she knows anything about that.
To say the two years following my mom’s death were rough would be an understatement. My father’s decline made the version of him at the funeral look like Ward Cleaver. He wasn’t abusive or anything. He was just so caught up in his grief that there wasn’t space for anything else. The housekeepers still kept the house in running order. I kept myself fed and on a schedule that didn’t raise any red flags at school, but we lived separate lives. Gone were the days of Sunday morning pancakes or movie and game nights. He threw himself into work, sometimes going days without coming home. Turns out, I wasn’t as indifferent to human interaction as I’d always believed myself to be. I just didn’t realize it until the amazing support system I’d had my entire life was ripped away. Things I thought were stupid before, I suddenly craved.
I wanted to eat dinner together.
I wanted him to throw his arm around me as we watched the latest action film while I pointed out all the stunts that would be physically impossible in the real world.
I wanted my dad to bug me to let him help work on my bike.
He did still drive me to the track for my competitions, but he no longer stood on the side, obnoxiously cheering me on.
I wanted all of those things, but I didn’t know how to tell him any of that. Hell, I didn’t even understand why I fucking wanted them so bad. But I dedicated my energy to fixing the problem. When he was home, I started making enough food for both of us. I’d bring it to his office, then sit and eat in silence alongside him. I’d send him email invites for movie nights. I’d even started sabotaging things on my bike and pretending I couldn’t diagnose the problem without his help.
None of it worked. My dad started putting in even longer hours at the office, would “forget” the movie nights he RSVP’d to, and hired a dedicated mechanic to have on call for all my racing needs. I’d finally gotten the one thing I’d always wanted—to be left alone. It went on like that for close to two years, and it was my own personal living Hell.
My entire life spiraled beyond my control, and no matter what I did, I couldn’t rein it in.
But then, slowly, things began to change.
Dad was suddenly in the kitchen at mealtimes. We’d sit together as he asked me about my day. He finally noticed the mechanic he’d hired never collected a single paycheck because I’d fired him the very day he’d shown up. He’d make time to stop by the garage out back, asking questions about the upgrades I’d made to my bike. He shared he’d begun therapy and was working through mom’s death. I didn’t know what to make of it at first, but eventually he told me he’d met someone.
I was not receptive to that shit initially. I wanted no fucking part in his quest to rebound from my mother. The day my father introduced me to his new girlfriend and her daughter was the first time I ever actively put effort into being a dick. Considering “dick” is normally baseline for me, you can imagine what a ray of fucking sunshine I was for the occasion.
We met them at the roller-skating rink, and I just remember whatever blunt smartass remark I threw at this woman, I couldn’t rattle her. She was so goddamn patient with me, all while tending to her six-year-old daughter who was meeting my dad for the first time as well. The little girl was shy, though she would giggle when my dad told her jokes.
I wanted so badly to dislike her, this little blonde-haired blue-eyed girl who waltzed in and suddenly had my dad bending over backward to impress her when he’d been ignoring me for the better part of two years. I’d skated off to the side, staring at the wall in a silent show of protest, when two small hands grabbed my wrist in a desperate attempt to steady herself. The little girl had skated ahead of her mother when she’d lost her footing and started to fall. She grasped for the first stable thing she could find—me.
I quickly grabbed hold, righting her as I lowered myself to her level. She shifted, maneuvering her hands to my shoulders so she could get a better grip.
“Don’t let me fall, ‘kay?” her small voice whispered as she clung to me.
“Never,” was all I could manage back, earning a smile from her in return. It was the first moment I’d felt needed in years. I took one look at her, and something cracked open inside me. Before I could seal it back up, Joanna had already wormed her way in.
I typically don’t subscribe to the concept of love. I have people in my life I deeply care about. So much so that I’ll even go the extra mile and tell my stepmom I love her on a semi-consistent basis. Why not? She’s a top-notch human who deserves to hear it even if the sentiment is bullshit. But J? It’s an indescribable feeling that I’m not sure I could name even if you put a gun to my head. She’s the exception to the rule.
I would walk through fucking fire for that one.
She grounds me.
I’m halfway through typing out a message to said baby sis when my phone dings with an incoming text from none other than Mav himself. His message previews at the top of my screen—some smartass remark about the incident tonight and how my house ain’t in order—and for a moment, his name shares a space with my sister’s.
It’s brief, no more than five seconds before the small window disappears leaving only my conversation with J on display once again, but it’s just long enough to spark the memory of sins I committed—of the happily ever after I ripped from them. Overcome with unease, I drop my phone to my lap and pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting the urge to spiral as the demons residing within me begin their taunts.
She’s gonna find out what you did and hate you.
He’s going to find out and pull out of the alliance.
You’ll lose everything you worked for. Everyone will be at risk.
My eyes squeeze shut, the soft lull of tires on pavement fading into the background while white noise roars in my ears. My chest tightens as a chill sweeps across my now sweat-dampened skin. Drawing deep prolonged breaths, I hear my mother’s voice echo in my mind. Count it down for me, Nicky.
Three things I can hear: The faint sound of Rico’s playlist filtering throughout the SUV. The deep measured breaths of my rhythmic inhales. A muffled thud when the wheels hit an unexpected dip in the road.
Two things I can feel: The cool air slipping into the cabin from the crack in my window. The skin of my forearm as I trace the lines of my tattoo—the one that’s identical to the one on my sister’s ribs.
