Either way, both scenarios would lead them to the bed.
The grin my father usually would’ve worn wasn’t there. He was as cold as a block of ice, but inside, his blood ran as hot as lava. I knew this—I was his son. I felt the same way. Except I could feel the blood we shared running down my back, almost scalding my skin.
The dead men behind me started cheering for their old man. They thought he had this. That, somehow, they were going to win.
Maybe because they’d always won before.
Their cheers died when my old man started to get in hit after hit. He was, literally speaking, beating the shit out of Ash Green. It didn’t take long before he was on the floor, his eyes open but not seeing. The ice blue was almost fucking eerie in the glow of the dim barn light.
My old man stared at him, and before he walked over to me, he spit on the dead man’s back, right where he’d sliced me open. He looked at my back and his eyes became even more furious. When he turned to look at the dead men behind us, they all shifted uncomfortably.
They’d probably never seen a man fight like my old man, to the point where he killed another man with a few lethal punches.
My grandfather’s eyes almost seemed to glow when he looked at my father. He was proud of him.
My throat was clogged with warring emotions—my father had killed that man because he’d touched me, and the fire in my own veins was boiling over for my own adversaries.
I turned, and a vision of my wife and her cousin assaulted me. Sitting in those same spots. Atta terrified in this barn, not for her own life, not for the foulness that was being done to her body, but for that of my wife and her brother. The terror both women felt when they saw each other. Atta knowing what was planned for my wife, and my wife knowing what had been done to her cousin—to a certain degree.
My wife sticking her chin up in defiance and not allowing that motherfucker to break her. And he was going to try to fucking break her as he had been broken.
He couldn’t stand a woman whose spirit was stronger than his, because he was a weak boy who played with dangerous toys to get his cock hard.
Some would be sympathetic to his case.Well, he was abused... He had a choice. He could either be like his old man or walk away. He chose the path of no redemption. He had abused. Bullied. Tortured. Killed.
“Not with that, sir,” came Rattler’s voice, strong for all that.
Nonno had picked up Ash’s whip and was holding it. All the dead men’s eyes were narrowed on the snake-looking strip of leather.
“You do not get to decide how to die,” my grandfather said. “This choice is for a man. Not for slop. Now, if you can, attempt to redeem yourselves by standing like men.”
My grandfather doled out the punishments. I’d fight Rattler, and Angelo would steal his heart. What Rattler had done to Atta was worse on the scale of offenses. Didn’t make me any less bloodthirsty. The coward had split my wife’s skin open. She bled on this dirty fucking floor, just as I was bleeding on it. I hoped my blood would find hers and coat it, our DNA linked for all time, mine wrapped up with hers, protecting it.
At the end of the night, all enemies had been destroyed, and the snake barn went up in flames—taking with it the hell on earth that it once was.
The car was filled with the scents of smoke and blood. It was still nighttime, but it was softened by the oncoming light. Everyonein the SUV—my grandfather, my father, Marciano,ZioRomeo, and Angelo—were quiet as Donato drove.
We all had our own thoughts to contend with.
The SUV came to a crawl along the road leading to the ranch. Donato easily braked and put it in park, turning the ignition off when we reached the main house. None of us said anything as we stepped out. Not a sound was made, even though doors were shutting. I walked with my family toward the cottages.
Close enough, doors opened, and women stepped out. Atta paused and then ran to Angelo. He wrapped her up in his arms and carried her back inside.
My grandfather took it all in with eyes that were softening with the night. His romantic blood was serenading him. “This,” he said in Italian, his voice rough and low. “This is why a man is called to honor. The romance is our reward.” He began to sing, his voice lower than usual. My grandmother met him at their door and invited him inside, her hand outstretched.
Marciano sighed, going alone to his cottage.
My father looked at my back, the heat in his eyes starting to return. Mamma looked between the two of us, her eyes narrowed. I knew once she noticed my back, she was going to want to take care of me. I raised my hand in anI’m all rightgesture. She fiddled with the tie of her robe, debating with herself. My father barely touched my shoulder. Then he went to mamma and said something in her ear.
She shut her eyes and nodded. Papà had probably said something along the lines of, “Allow his wife to take care of him.” Papà guided Mamma into their cottage and shut the door.
Mia was waiting for Rio, and even though he offered to clean my back, I declined his offer.
“I’m good,” I said.
He nodded and went to my sister.
Padrinonodded at me. “If your father had not killed that coward, your mamma would have.”
