The one who used to ruffle my hair and tell me I was stronger than I looked.
There was nothing.
No recognition. No warmth.
Just contempt.
Cold and absolute.
Vasquez took a slow drag from his cigarette, watching me like I was something beneath him.
Then he exhaled through his nose.
Smoke curled upward.
Like a dragon breathing out something poisonous.
He took a step forward, crushing the cigarette beneath his heel.
The motion was deliberate.
As if he was stamping out more than just ash.
“Still reeling from the shock of me being alive?” he said, smirking.
“Your whore of a mother made me disown you—and your sister—ages ago.”
The words landed like a blade.
My breath hitched violently.
The ground beneath me felt less real.
The betrayal cut deeper than anything I had endured today.
Deeper than the agony I felt when Vincenzo had tried to tear my heart from my chest for Violet.
Deeper than the countless blows his men rained down on me.
Deeper than the pain of being dragged from that overturned car, bloodied and helpless.
My own father.
My blood.
Looking at me with pure, unfiltered hatred.
I searched his face again.
Harder this time.
Frantically. For something.
Anything that would remind me this was a mistake.
That he would soften.
That he would say my name differently.
