“Knock it off, old man!” He winces, dodging my hand as I reach for him again. “You do enough fussing over me for ten mothers.”
“Damn right. Now be a good lad and gather your stuff. By this time tomorrow, you’ll be back in your dorm, crying with homesickness.”
And I’ll be somewhere outside of the city, crying over a shot of whiskey at the state of my finances.
“Whatever you say, Don.” Rolling his eyes, Vin marches past me for the front door. A car is already waiting outside to take us to the airport, and with an exaggerated sigh, he heads toward it. From over his shoulder, he quips, “Since I’m your cherished boy, you should carry most of the bags, right?”
“Think again, smartass,” I call after him.
The second he’s out of view, the smile I’ve been sporting for his benefit falls. Fuck. Heavy with dread, I approach the room off the main hall that I’ve been using as a makeshift study. For the first time, I scan the pile of documents lying on the desk in a neat stack, left by Fabio, who worked all night to compile them. I look them over, hissing through my teeth. In a sense, they serve the same purpose as a white flag, ceding my control of the docks—and much of my income.
After Mischa’s suggested “donation” to his daughter’s conservatory, my disposal accounts will be all but drained. The rumors weren’t exaggerating about the bastard’s malicious streak.
God only knows how I’ll scrape together enough to continue to cover Vin’s tuition. He still has his trust fund, separate from any other accounts, but I’ll find more. Even if I have to sell the rest of my assets piece by piece. I’ll fucking find every last cent.
I form a fist at the thought of Mischa’s ultimatum and smash it against the wooden surface of the desk.
“Everything okay, Don?” Vin calls out.
“I’m fine,” I rasp back.
I’m not.
My knuckles smart like a bitch, but a grim truth dulls any pain I might feel—it could have been worse. Much worse. No matter the damage done to my pride, I’d be a fool to challenge these terms.
I would be an even bigger fool to waste any time. Turning tail and running now is the best course of action for everyone involved—regardless of whether or not I feel like a whipped dog in the process.
“Don?” Vin calls from the hallway, but the inflection in his tone catches my attention. He’s alarmed. “Are you expecting a meeting or something?”
“A meeting?” I call back. Then I groan at the thought of Fabio dropping by to issue yet more stern mothering and fucking paperwork—I turned my phone off just to avoid his calls for a reason. The man is well known for his tendency toward overkill. Forcing another smile for Vin’s sake, I head for the foyer. “Coming.”
I’ve barely gone a step before I realize what he means—a sudden commotion erupts from the front lawn, but Fabio’s arrival never draws this kind of fanfare. Or chaos. I break into a run, shouting for Javier as the piercing sound of squealing tires is followed by a sharper crack that chills me to the core.
As I near the doorway, I see the cause for myself—a black car crashing through the gate, speeding toward the house.
I know instantly the driver isn’t Fabio, and my blood goes cold. On the list of potential suspects, one stands out, and I take a step toward the gun safe I’ve yet to clear out in the living room. Apparently, Salvatore decided to stop playing coy with his attempts on my life and try a more direct course of action. But no…
The second I see the car’s model—a practical kind, not flashy and expensive—I know I’m off base. Only a professional would ride like this.
And not to discuss financial terms, either.
“Vin, get inside!” I demand.
He’s standing on the front steps, watching the car approach. I barely manage to shove him behind me as the vehicle careens up the front path, swerving to a stop before the steps.
The door to the back seat flies open, and a man lunges onto the pavement without so much as a warning. Confusion roots me to the spot the second I see his face—this man doesn’t work for Salvatore. Long blond hair streams down his shoulders, his expression cold, his identity chilling.
Mischa.
One look at his face, and I know he’s not here to gloat over my capitulation. Recognition gives me a cruel taste of déjà vu. In his eyes, I see a blind rage I know all too well—the same look I saw in the mirror seven years ago.
It happens in slow motion. I see the gun he pulls from the pocket of his gray fatigues. See his hand aiming. Hear the shot…
The booming sound rips through my eardrums, and my mind goes blank.
Blood rushes to my head, deafening me to any sound.
I’ve been shot before—more than once. I know the fiery agony to expect. It hits like a crushing blow, taking even the strongest man off his feet.
I grit my teeth in anticipation of it, but as the seconds sluggishly tick by, I stay standing.
Snippets of action unfold before me, but I’m powerless to move.
Mischa jumps back into his car and drives off. Even in the brutal aftermath of uncertainty, I know I should be taking after him. Or preparing for another attack—no one takes one shot and walks away.
Unless I’m hit.
Gradually, sensation returns to my limbs. I run my hand across my chest, surprised when I feel no sputtering warmth of fresh blood. No fire.
Last time a bullet hit my collar, fracturing the bone, and I nearly blacked out from the agony.
This time…I don’t feel anything other than an emotion I hate to acknowledge, resonating in my gut—fear.
Across the lawn, a man lies sprawled in the dirt. His dark suit warns that he’s one of mine, and I dread knowing his identity. Javier? Another guard?
I can’t be sure before I catch sight of someone else racing from the other end of the property, their lips moving, eyes wide. Javier. He sprints up the front steps, weapon drawn, but his eyes aren’t on me—and whatever has his attention must be bad.
So bad the man pales, his throat cording around a shout.
Confused, I turn around…
And the next thing I know, I’m on my knees. Mischa shot me after all—I’m in a coma, hallucinating the unthinkable.
That’s the only reason to explain this.
Because what I’m seeing isn’t real. It can’t be him. Not Vin, lying on his side, a puddle of scarlet seeping from his ear. He’s too pale. Too red. Too red.
I call his name, hearing nothing but the surging pulse of my own heartbeat in response.
They say grief has stages to it, that there’s a perfect name for every emotion. While it sounds nice in theory, it’s all bullshit some doctor came up with while in his nice, neat office. Someone who never truly experienced the depths of that despair. Or known the brutal, violent kind of loss…
There are no fucking steps to follow, no pretty ways to quantify it. The shit hollows you.
There is only pain to judge the passage of time. One day, you can almost barely live with it. That’s coming to terms with it, I guess. Or what you say to stay out of the fucking shrink’s office at least.
The truth is that nothing will ever lessen it. Ever. Time merely soothes the sting, and alcohol may dull the ache, but the wound is always there, always smarting at the slightest touch. No amount of mourning ever eases it. You just linger there in the pit of that sadness, always waiting for it to consume you again—or you cling to the few people whose presence can distract from the pain.