And my brothers tend to be far less sympathetic than their wives.
“She left. Told me not to contact her or Jackson again,” I rasp and throw back my third shot in as many minutes. “She thinks being associated with me will put them at risk—and I can’t say I blame her. I couldn’t even come up with a decent defense after what happened tonight.”
“But you got her out,” Sandro insists, stepping forward. “You protected them.”
I shake my head. “That’s the point. She never needed protection before I came around. And I can’t promise that I’ll be there to protect her every time. I failed her completely eight years ago—which is what created this whole mess to begin with.”
“Damn, Gio.” Leo’s lips press into a grim line. Then he steps up beside me and pulls four more lowball glasses off the bottom shelf of the wet bar.
Morning comes slow and ugly. My head feels like someone wedged a jackhammer behind my eyes.
The house is still, quiet.
It always is for days after a fight—like the walls themselves are holding their breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But it’s been nearly a week since we infiltrated the Tanaka estate, and no one’s come looking for us.
They’re too busy handling the chaos after losing theirOyabun, I’m sure.
Leo and Sora stuck around for a few days, hovering like they were afraid I would vanish if they blinked too long.
But they couldn’t stay indefinitely.
They have a new life away from all the loss and violence that seems to plague our family name—a new home and a baby on the way.
Miko has offered his support with his quiet brand of loyalty—sitting with me while I nurse my hangovers every morning.
He doesn’t ask questions, just drinks his coffee like tomorrow’s another day. I’m grateful for that.
Sandro keeps trying to drag me into sparring matches. I think he wants to beat the grief out of me. It hasn’t worked. Nothing does.
I spend hours on the balcony every day, staring down at the driveway, waiting for the two people who will never come.
At night, I find the bottle before I find my bed.
The whiskey still burns as it goes down, but not enough to cauterize the hole in my chest.
Raf’s the only one who’s managed to cut through the haze, even if just for a moment.
And as I roll over in bed, I think about our conversation out on the balcony last night, leaning on the railing—him with a glass of scotch, me with the rest of the bottle, since I’ve given up even trying to look presentable.
“At least you know she’s alive, Gio,” he said. “At least Stephanie and Jackson get to keep on living their lives.”
I didn’t answer right away. I couldn’t. My throat was tight, my hands shaking around the bottle’s neck.
“My wife will never have that,” he added, voice low and tormented. “But at least Kenji’s truly dead this time. The man responsible for what happened to her is gone. That’s all the solace I’m going to get. But you have the privilege of knowing that the woman you love is still out there somewhere.Living happily with her son.”
His words did help a little, more than I want to admit. But the only real peace I can find is at the bottom of a bottle, and by the end of every night, I’m there.
It takes nearly an hour to convince myself to get out of bed.
I don’t bother shaving or even running a comb through my hair as I head down to the kitchen, hoping a bit of caffeine will ease the stabbing pain trapped behind my eyes.
I find Anika sitting at the breakfast room table when I come in with a mug of black coffee.
Everyone else seems to have already headed out for the day, Miko and the twins hell-bent on causing as much destruction for the Yakuza as they can while they’re vulnerable.
Anika gives me a soft smile as she lowers her mug of decaf to the table. I’m grateful when she pretends not to notice that I’m still wearing last night’s clothes.
