Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 76222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 381(@200wpm)___ 305(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
It wasn’t because my father wanted to spend time with his children and wife. No, he wanted the control. He wanted the routine, so he could exert his power and vileness onto the ones he should have cared for the most.
And the motherfucker wanted to look me in the eye and know I’d taken care of the situation the only way our kind did.
I headed to my parents’ house and was with it enough that I changed clothes and washed my hands. But other than that, I stayed in a haze. I could only envision all that blood I had on my hands and felt like it still covered me.
I was about to push through the dining room door, when I heard my mother speak.
“Where is Gio?” she softly asked.
“Work.”
I felt my lip curl in disgust at the sound of my father’s voice. I knew my mother wouldn’t get any more of an explanation than that.
We all knew what “work” meant. It meant one thing.
That I was doing my father’s and the Cosa Nostra’s bidding.
I gritted my teeth and pushed the door open, doing a quick scan of the room. My mother and father didn’t bother looking up at my entrance, but Claudia stared at me, and I didn’t miss how she scanned my outfit.
I always prided myself on my appearance. Always clean cut and put together. A good appearance meant strength, and strength meant power.
I ran a hand over my hair, feeling the short, disheveled strands.
The longer Claudia stared at me, the more I realized I didn’t look as put together as she was used to seeing. A quick glance down at myself showed my shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and that I should have showered because blood from my knuckles was smeared and dry along the white material.
I didn’t draw any more attention to my appearance and, instead, smoothed my hands down my jacket. Fuck, I thought, as I saw my busted-up knuckles were still oozing.
“Is it done?” my father asked, still not looking at me.
I waited a second to respond while I took a seat beside Claudia and started filling my plate. “Yes.”
Nothing else was said as everyone ate, the only sound filling the dining room was silverware hitting the china.
There was no conversation, just this uncomfortable silence when in my father’s presence that I’d gotten far too comfortable with. Fuck that.
“Has anyone spoken to Amara?” I asked in between bites. I instantly felt the air change as the shift in my father came forward.
I held back my smirk, knowing Amara was the last thing my father wanted to talk about.
“She’s married off. She’s not our problem anymore.” His voice was like a rusty, dull blade, and I was no longer having to restrain my amusement. It was gone in an instant.
I felt Claudia looking at me, and I could feel my mother and her brace themselves at the sudden chill around them.
But their reaction didn’t affect me, so I just kept eating. Until his words started festering as they played in a loop inside my mind.
My father hadn’t beaten me in years—not since I had become bigger and stronger than him.
When I didn't respond, he went back to drinking.
I let my fork fall to the plate with a loud clang. I grabbed a napkin, wiped my mouth, and leaned back, staring stoically at the older man.
The more seconds passed, the more irritated I felt. But this was good. I was feeling something, and I embraced it.
“Just because she’s married doesn’t mean I can’t speak about my sister or ask how she’s doing.” I made sure my voice was even and clear.
Suddenly, everything became deathly quiet, and I sensed Claudia tense even more beside me. My mother kept her focus on her plate, her throat working as she swallowed. Her being a meek and worthless mother was par for the course. Any ounce of sadness or empathy I’d ever felt where my mother was concerned had left when she let her husband beat and abuse her children and never tried to do anything about it, even going so far as to keep it secret.
I picked up the glass of wine in front of me and challenged my father by holding my ground. Without breaking eye contact with him, I spoke to the woman who gave birth to me.
“What about you, Mother? Have you talked to your eldest daughter?”
I did smirk then, when my father slammed his fist down on the table, the dishware bouncing a second before some of the glasses tipped over from the force.
Claudia jumped involuntarily, and my weak-ass mother shrank further into herself. I placed a palm on my sister’s knee when she started bouncing it wildly. When she calmed slightly, I removed my hand.
I brought my wine to my lips to down the rest of it, just so I could refill it.