”Yes, I’ll stand here forever if that’s what it takes. You didn’t kill them. A heartless person did. When I look at you, I see my dad. The man who helped create me. I see the man who bandaged my knee when I fell off my scooter. The man who walked around with pink fabric in his arms at the flea market. The man I love with all my heart. It is not your fault, Dad. Nothing you can say or ever do will convince me otherwise.”
“Bullshit. It sure as hell is my fault,” he grates, tears filling his eyes.
“How can you say that? You aren’t responsible for what someone else does, Dad. Sure, you’ve killed people. They betrayed the Empire. You are not like whoever did this. If they wanted to retaliate, then they should have gone after you.”
The words slip out of my mouth, startling us both, but I’m not going to dwell on it. Not when it’s true. Only a coward, a person with no heart, no morals, no care, would kill undeserving women and children. Even David didn’t deserve it.
There isn’t a single man in the Empire who would do something like that unless there was a good reason. Still, they’d go after the source and not the family. That’s just how they are—bad men with morals when it comes down to who they kill.
“You don’t have any idea how I wish they would have. I should have fucking been there, Victoria. Steven didn’t even have the chance to live, for fuck’s sake, and your sister and mother, they were good women. How can you not blame me for you losing them?”
I don’t blink. I’m not even sure if I’m breathing at this point. If I remember correctly, Dad had to run back to his and Mom’s house for something she’d forgotten that night. Sure, he could have stopped it. He could be dead too. I don’t know what state of mind I’d be in if I lost him as well. Hell, if I weren’t out shopping for last-minute gifts like I always do, I’d be dead too.
Pain and fear. They explode in my chest.
My mind shuffles quickly, trying to think of what to say to bring him back from the dark. To set his aching soul free, even if it’s for just a little while.
“Because I love you, Dad. I love you so much that it hurts listening to you blame yourself. I understand the guilt. Believe me, I do. I love you, Dad, and I always will. Do you hear me? Please stop blaming yourself. You just said you needed a clear head. Kill Agent Wozniak. Let that be the first step toward your revenge.”
His eyes go wide, shocked at my words once again.
I feel another piece of the old me sinking to my stomach. This time it’s a ball of ice. The cube I’ve had over my heart to protect it is melting, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. I’m choking on all these different conflicting emotions, feeling out of sorts. But I’ll do whatever I have to do for the man that is hurting more than I can understand.
Sagging to his knees, he starts crying, and all I can do is go to him, wrap my arms around his body as he breaks down.
My unbreakable, indomitable, rock-steady father cries. And it’s more than crying—it’s a keening and heartbreaking painful release. I gulp in ragged breaths while I hold him, doing everything I can to be the support he needs.
Despite everything wrong he’s done, he’s human. He bleeds and hurts. He is a protector with his own set of fears. He is a man filled with so much grief; he may never be the same again.
CHAPTER FOUR
Seth
Blood.
I can smell it as I walk into the room and take off my jacket and dress shirt, and fold them across the back of a chair.
I always loved the word blood. It’s used wrong in many phrases and questions. I prefer testing it the correct way, to prove what kind you have running through your veins.
Do you have what it takes to put in the effort and suffering that makes up blood, sweat, and tears? Or are you a pussy when it comes down to it? A lot of men are. They hate to bleed, hate to sweat, and think a man shouldn’t cry.
Fuck that shit. Even the strongest of men bleed and cry, and only a weak man hates to sweat.
If someone deserves to die, are you willing to live with having their blood on your hands? Do you believe that blood is thicker than water? Or are you a cold-blooded killer that sheds blood from the innocent just for fun? The last type boils mine with rage and gets it pumping through my veins—rushing it straight to my itchy, murdering hands.
It makes me want to drain every drop right out of them until that pungent, sickly sweet smell hits the air.
The man I’m going to kill might as well have emptied mine from my body because I’m one pissed-off man who happens to have what it takes to make up blood, sweat, and tears.
I’ve lost and shed all three.
No one threatens my family, woman, friends, and lives to see the light of day. Not when I’m around.
“Hearing about you was not the welcome I expected to the great state of New York, Agent Wozniak. I’m Seth Mitchell. Lucifer, as you called me. I’d much prefer to be called the Devil, but it seems you aren’t in a position to negotiate, so think of me as the man who will end your life.” My voice is calm, deadly calm, considering everything I’ve learned in the past few hours about this piece of shit.
Just
