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Men like him are dominant and distrustful. They come and go as they please, while the women stay behind to clean and cook—to give the world around them the illusion of perfection.
Perfect wife.
Perfect kids.
Perfect house with a large yard and a beautiful dog running around.
I’ve seen it from my father. And while my mother has always remained quiet, I refuse to let anyone else hold that power over me. It’s why I admire Malcolm’s mom. My aunt doesn’t play by those rules and refuses to let her husband or son become that sick.
Because this misogynistic idea, the illusion of a killer being a family man, gives him a reputable status. It makes him dependable and trustworthy, something that no criminal is.
I will kill anyone who crosses those I love without remorse.
And the sole reason I regret killing Lane? His mother.
The pure look of horror and devastation in that woman’s eyes when Malcolm turned the body over and gave them three days to leave the country still haunts me. Gail was devastated to lose her only child, and the raw pain of her wails made me realize that I never want to be in her shoes.
To be that vulnerable.
“No!” Gail stands, eyes blazing in anger and despair. “This isn’t true. Tell me it’s not true, Mariah!”
“I’m sorry,” I answer, my voice low. A little unsteady; her pain makes my chest clench. I feel bad for her. His mother, even though she was overindulgent and turned a blind eye to Lane’s bad behavior—her son’s many addictions—genuinely loved him. That was her baby, her only child, that I killed. “He’s gone.”
“You fucking—”
“Tom, I’d be very careful about how you finish that sentence.” Malcolm sits forward in his chair, hands flat atop his desk. “Disrespect her, and your wife will be burying two bodies, not one.”
“Nephew,” my father says suddenly, hands up as if to pacify the situation. “Leave this to me. It’s my daughter at fault here and who needs to make amends to the Dermots.” That stung, a sob catching in my throat at the look of disgust he sent my way. In his eyes, I messed up. He’s afraid of the Dermots for some reason. “Mariah needs to pay for her crime. I’ll make sure they’re not to—”
“Not another word before I lose my last shred of patience with you. I’m not your brother, nor do I hold qualms over hurting one of my own.” At Malcolm’s words, Dad steps back and sends me a murderous glare. Something my cousin catches. “Stay in your lane, and keep those eyes on the ground. She’s above you and always will be.”
“Do you not have a heart?” Lane’s mother steps in front of her fuming husband, her fingernails digging into his arm, a silent plea to keep composure. There’s more he wants to say, insult me, but can’t. Not with Malcolm here, and more so with the six fully armed guards standing post. Their Molly operation, while quite large, only holds that power because my family has allowed them to flourish with the agreement that they know their place and pay a due, giving them rights to a certain area. I was just a bonus. “She killed our son and you—”
“You should thank her for being merciful.”
Both Lane’s parents and mine gasp, but it’s Tom’s face I focus on. He’s turning red in anger. Hate. “You seem to forget that we hold power in this city, too, Asher. Chicago is—”
“Mine.” Malcolm interrupts, standing from behind his desk, and walks toward a small storage cabinet in the room. Inside there are a few guns, a knife, a ring, and a glass used when certain business agreements are made.
It’s an old-school tradition. You sign with blood, not ink.
A collective intake of breath and the glass shatters upon impact, creating a small hole where it met the wall. It’s a symbolic gesture. Their accord is over.
“You’ve fooled yourself into believing you are more than what you are. All of you. It’s the same mistake Lane made the night he attacked my family, in her home, intending to end her life.” His back is to the room, voice controlled, and yet you feel his ire. The evil that lurks beneath the surface and his enemies cower from. “You are nothing but what I allow. One word from me, and your entire life can be burned to the ground with you inside the building. Or in your case, Uncle, the home I’ve allowed you to keep. I’m being more than courteous here, at Mariah’s request, by letting you all live. Because had he succeeded or ran, I would’ve made you watch me dismember him limb by limb while alive.”
Neither set opens their mouths, but their eyes speak volumes. Fear. Almost choking panic at his words.
If they stay here another minute, he’d order their execution on the blatant disrespect alone.
“Leave.” At that, all four parents snap their eyes my way. I don’t give them a chance to refute my demand or negotiate. I’m saving their lives, even if they don’t see it. “Take your son’s body, sell what you can, and get out of the country within the next forty-eight hours. Do not look back. Do not come back.”
“Mariah, sweetheart,” Mom says, voice low and contrite. And I believe it, too. Problem is that she’s a product of a male-dominated home where his word is the law and his demands reign king. She has no real backbone. “Baby, please stop this nonsense. This isn’t how I brought you up.”
“I think it’s better for all involved if you two leave as well.” Tears gather in her eyes, hurt, and disappointment flowing down each cheek, but I’m not moved. Not this time.
Lane’s dad opens his mouth, the retort on his tongue sure to be coated in venom, but he’s interrupted by a guard stepping inside. There’s a body over this employee’s shoulder, the body-bag hiding their identity, but everyone knows.
“Heed her warning. My cousin’s more generous than I am.” Malcolm snaps a finger, and the body is placed at the Dermots feet. His mother’s eyes fill with tears that fall as a hurt-filled wail escapes her chest. Her husband, though, shows a little more composure. There’s sadness, but overpowering the pain is hate. He’s scared, but the disdain is just as powerful. “She asked me to return him to you, and now I have. So do as she bravely suggests. Leave. Don’t further tempt me to break my promise.”
