“Pendejo.”
Once again, it's a one-word warning that hangs heavy in the air, and I roll my eyes in disdain, unable to help myself. “You've lost your touch, old man,” I taunt, a calculated move.
I know the dangers of provoking him, but at this moment, I want his anger to be focused on me, to keep his attention away from her, to spare her even a brief respite from his cruelty. For now, I'll bear the brunt of his torment, if it means protecting her.
Me. Not her.
Me. Not her.
I promised I’d protect her, and I will.
I think she sees it in my eyes, too, because slowly, so fucking slowly, she creeps toward the corner as he storms toward me, his eyes so black, so rage-filled, I know he’s forgotten her. At least for now.
So I smirk, guaranteeing my future.
“I thought you were powerful, Father.” I chuckle, clicking my tongue as I look down at him. Even here, latched to a wall, I still have a good three inches on him, and I make every one of those inches count. “Why the fuck would you have to go to such extremes to lock me up just to ask me a stupid question?” My grin grows. “If you were as smart as you pretend to be, you’d already know.”
I expect the first punch to my gut, but I’m unprepared for how hard he can still hit with how weak he’s become. Still, I laugh through it. I need him to snap. I need him to lose it.
“That all you got?” I taunt.
His face turns red as he arcs back and sends his fist through my jaw.
I spit blood right at him. “You used to hit harder, Gus. What happened? Diaz’s lackeys get a hold of you?” My eyes scan his body, finding his legs already shaking, and something tells me I might not be that far off. “What’d you do to piss him off?”
“Shut your fucking mouth!” he snarls, his voice thick with fatigue already. “You know nothing, boy, nothing!”
Boy.
The word used to piss me off when all I wanted was to be a man. Now, his words, his taunts, his violence, they mean nothing to me.
He hits me once, twice, three times, taking aim at my exposed gut. I grunt and bite my tongue, keeping the sounds of pain tucked deep inside. He gets none of them.
With him distracted, I slide my gaze to my left, finding Katarina tucked in the corner, her body so small she fits under the filthy sink. It’s dark enough that with her head dipped low, I think he might actually forget her.
I give her a quick, pained nod of approval before looking back to Gus just as he bellows his question again. “Where is she?”
“Who?” I snarl back, panting from the pain slowly blooming across my body.
His fists clench at his sides as he glares up at me. “Don’t play stupid, Gage.” From this close, I can tell he’s falling apart. I can tell something is far more wrong with him than I’d originally thought. “Where is the Moreau girl?”
It takes every fucking thing inside of me to hold back my reaction to his question.
Moreau girl?
Moreau girl.
Your little girlfriend.
The Princess of the Bay.
So it’s true. Ella, my sweet Isabella, is the prodigal daughter. The heir to the Moreau empire, Les Beaux Voyous’ new Godmother.
Holy fucking shit.
Mixed emotions swirl through me. I’ve spent a lifetime hating the Moreau’s for what they did to my mother. To the guys’ families. But even as a teenager, I knew there was a chance that anger was misplaced. Any story, any version of events that arerelayed by Gus, runs the risk of being lies and slander. He’s nothing if not consistent.
Regardless, I know who Ella is. If her family truly was as disgusting and hateful as I’ve been taught to believe, then she’ll be the change they desperately need.
