I can see the anger in his eyes, the intense fury that dwells deep inside. It’s a darkness that eats away at him, and I know that he drinks more than he should to try and keep it at bay.
I have the same darkness inside of me. It comes out in different ways, but it’s there, slowly rotting me from the inside. I hate my father in this moment because I see myself in him, and it disgusts me. My knuckles go white and adrenaline pumps hard in my blood, but I keep it down, waiting for him to get out whatever’s on his mind.
He better do it quick, 'cause I don’t have time for this shit.
“You can’t fuck this up for me,” he growls. His face is close to mine, but I don’t move. I don’t give him the opportunity to see me weak. “The familia’s denied me for far too long. This is our chance to make things right for our family.”
Duke returns without the ball and growls at my father. It’s low and rough, from somewhere deep down in his throat.
“I’d let me go if I were you,” I say softly, cocking a brow and looking my father in the eye. Duke doesn’t have the type of control I do. But he’ll always wait for my command.
“What, you gonna send that fucking dog after me?” He scoffs, but it’s quick and panic is barely hidden beneath it.
“No,” I say, staring him down. “You know I don’t need his help.”
There’s a strained moment between us. I can see my father doing the math in his head, wondering if he could take me in a fair fight now that I’m older. We’ve come close to fighting in the past, though we've never actually traded blows. But we both know I have youth and experience on my side, and so he slowly releases me and takes a deep breath.
He picks up the cigar he dropped on the ground and takes a long puff, looking away as he walks back to the oak tree, ignoring everything that just happened. That’s what he does. Thickheaded, thin-skinned and hot-tempered. That’s the Romano in him.
I walk across the yard and bend down, picking up the ball Duke left, and throw it. Duke darts after it as if nothing happened.
“Just think about it,” he finally says, forcing me to look over my shoulder and face him. “If we kill this fucker, we can be rolling in it for a long time.”
“If we kill this fucker, we can start a war.” I bite out my words. That’s the real reason I don’t want in on this.
He shrugs, rubbing out his cigar on the tree and letting out a deep exhalation of smoke. “Let’s just wait and see what they have to say.” He glances at me, a look of determination on his face, and then heads off back toward his truck.
I don’t watch him go. I know he’s pissed, and I understand that. Fuck, I can’t even blame him, not really. Joining the familia is his lifelong dream, and if someone got in the way of what I wanted, well, I’d fucking kill them.
Too bad the old bastard needs me. The sound of his truck starting fills the chilly air as Duke comes back to me.
I’m his rightful successor. He’s getting old, too old to go on hits, and for the last two years I’ve been taking on more and more of the load. In fact, he hasn’t actually killed in nearly six months, which is strange for a man who makes his living in death.
He raised me to be a killer and to be the fucking best at what I do. From a young age I remember going to shooting ranges, and practicing knife skills. My childhood was almost exclusively learning to fight, learning to stalk, and learning how to kill efficiently and quietly. My father trained me to be a hitman, and I quickly found out that I was damn good at it.
And I like it. I like tracking down my victims and taking their lives. They all deserve it. They have it coming to them. As far as I’m concerned, I’m doing the world a favor. I like the power and respect I get for being a skilled and in-demand assassin. Nobody fucks with me because they know who I am, and what I’m capable of. No one can push me around. They wouldn’t fucking dare.
But I can’t deny that it fucked me up. That it changed me. I can remember the way I was back when I was still a kid, back before killing became my life. The darkness wasn’t there back then. I wasn’t born with it. It was created.
As I pitch the ball across the yard again, I remember the day my father brought me completely into this life and forced me to kill a man for the first time.
* * *
My father stands over me in the cellar. My breath comes in ragged, short gasps.
“Don’t be a pussy,” he says to me, his voice barely above a whisper as he grips my shoulders. “You fucking afraid?”
“No,” I say, but I’m lying. I’m terrified. I’m ten years old and I’ve never seen a man die before. Not in real life.
The old man’s tied to a chair with a gag in his mouth, muffling his screams and pleas. I don’t know him. His eyes are wide and brown. His hair is receding and he’s probably fifty years old, but I didn’t really know that back then. I was just a kid. I didn’t know anything.
“What did he do?” I ask tentatively, and my voice cracks. My heart is beating so loudly I can hardly hear anything else.
My father whirls on me. “You fucking know not to ask questions.” The anger in his voice makes me flinch. Ever since Mom died, it’s been different between us. He takes his rage out on me. It’s my fault.
“I know,” I say, looking away from him. I expect him to hit me, and I wait for it… but he doesn’t. My body is so hot. I feel like I can’t even breathe.
“It doesn’t matter what he did. All that matters is we get paid. These guys, they’re all shit. You have to understand that.” The man screams again behind his gag, but whatever he’s saying is dampened. I wish I knew.
