But I’m not that reckless. Not yet anyway.
With the way my anger is going, I might be.
I shake my head, stepping back to pull my thoughts together. I never expected such a cocky fucking attitude from him.
“I want to have dinner with my daughter and you. You owe me a dinner,” Ricardo says, wiping the back of his hand and his sleeve across his lip and his chin, then looking down at the blood staining the fabric. He licks his lips and scrunches his nose.
“I don’t fucking owe you anything, asshole, and neither does she,” I shout.
He’s making me lose my temper and myself control. Iamready to put a bullet through his skull, except I know I can’t do it. It’s not only about the witnesses. It’s about her. It’s about her never forgiving me.
And I think he knows it too, which is what’s driving me insane.
Ricardo snorts. “Dinner. I want to see my daughter. And you and I can talk.”
“What the hell would I ever want to talk to you about?” I demand.
“Business?” he shrugs.
And suddenly it all makes sense.
This old fool doesn’t give a shit about seeing Athena. He couldn’t care less if he never sees her again. The reason he called her after not bothering for so long, the reason he is talking to me now—it’s all in his head to take advantage of his connection to her. To make some kind of a deal with me. He wants money. He wants business. He wants anything and everything he can get his selfish paws onto.
I laugh coldly. “Why am I not surprised?” I mutter. “I should have seen it right away. Business?” I scoff.
“Family business,” he smiles.
I pull my gun, violence in my thoughts. Anger in my blood.
I press the nozzle against his temple and snarl close to his face. “I’ll fucking shoot you right now. There is no world in which I would do business with you. Or let you near her!”
He laughs. “Go ahead.”
“What!” I blurt out.
“Go ahead. Shoot me. What is your pretty little wife going to think when she finds out you killed her daddy? Will she forgive you? Will she be ok with it? Or will she see the monster you truly are and run away screaming?”
I press the barrel harder against his skull.
It digs into his skin. My finger tightens on the trigger.
But he’s right.
He has me in a corner.
The rage seers hotter, and I scream into his face.
He laughs.
I spin, glaring at the people watching. “What the fuck are you looking at!?” I yell at them.
No one answers. They all look away again.
I spin on my heel, desperate to get away from the man I so badly want to kill but can’t. Never in my life have I been faced with such intense anger that I can’t vent out in some way.
I march from the bar, storming toward my car as I shove the gun back into the holster on my side.
Driving, I automatically head to a bar I used to go to when I needed to let off some steam.
