“It does matter!” she yells at me.
Our eyes connect across the room, and I wish I would have kept my goddamn mouth shut. But I didn’t. Maybe it is time for her to learn the truth.
“Those nannies hated us, Sab. They treated us like shit because they wanted to be more than just a fuck buddy to our dad and saw us as a complication—the reason he never stuck around. So, they were cruel to us. They pinched us and slapped us, just made sure not to leave any marks. They left us in our rooms and locked the doors so they didn’t have to deal with us. They deprived us of love, of hugs and kisses, of any affection—the affection our dad fuckinghired themto give us! Until one day, I figured out if I kept them busy by being a little shit, they’d leave you the fuck alone. If I was the little bastard child of the family, they’d take it out on me and not you, because you’d look like some little saint and maybe they’d love you and be kind to you. Maybe they’d see a place for you if they ever managed to pin our dad down. I made sure you got to be the golden child while I played the part of devil incarnate.”
Sabella stares at me, tears brimming her eyes. I hate that I’ve hurt her, that I’ve burdened her with this, and yet it feels good to get it off my chest. That makes me cruel, but I’ve held it in for so long, I can’t help but find some relief in sharing it.
She’s everything I’m not, and she deserves better than to have a brother like me and a father like Maxwell Gunner. She deserves a mother, grandparents who give a shit about her, and a life so much better than this.
Her eyes are glassy as she backs away. “I’ve got to go.”
I stare after her in surprise and shock.
“Sab? Please don’t go,” I plead, remorse burning in my gut along with the stale alcohol and drugs.
“I need to go. I’m meeting Dean Griffin. He’s helping me go over some notes for class. I’ll talk to you later, Sammy.” Sabella walks away, leaving me alone with my guilty conscience.
“Fuck,” I yell, throwing the bottle of water across the room. It explodes somewhere, and I slink down to the kitchen floor with my head in my hands wishing I could be anyone else but me right now.
After a cold shower to wake myself up, I down an expresso shot and walk to my car, my shoes crunching over the gravel. Maxwell’s car isn’t here, which means he isn’t home. Probably why he hasn’t given me shit for getting in so late last night. At least I’ve had a reprieve from him so far today.
This is how it goes with Maxwell and I. He gives me two days of bullshit out of every month, then he’s gone for the rest of it, working or screwing, or whatever the fuck he does with his fucking life.
I climb into my Porsche and start the engine, not sure where I’m actually heading until the wheels hit the road. Twenty minutes later, I pull up to the cemetery with a bunch of daisies on the passenger seat. I never come more than once a week, but today, it’s almost like she’s calling me to her. I make my way to the back of the cemetery, seeing the angel on top of her grave rising above all the others as I approach, and I stop in awe.
The sun is setting already, the entire day lost to my hangover. It dips below the angel, creating an orange halo around her head. I gulp, my arms hanging limply by my sides as I watch, mesmerized by the spectacle. I know it’s nothing more than the earth turning and pure coincidence, but it feels right, like this is where I need to be right now. The ball of anger I always have inside me loosens its grip as the sun drops completely below the angel and the spell is broken.
I make my way to the grave, climbing the three stone steps as I stare at her name like I do every time.
Today, there are no words for her. I have nothing I want to tell her. Nothing I want her to know. Today, I just want a mom—my mom. I just want to sit with her. Be near her. Today, for some ungodly fucking reason, I really want to know her.
Sitting down, I lay her flowers next to me and light a cigarette. I smoke it in silence, watching as the dark shadows fall over the cemetery. My heart thuds in my chest, slowly, methodically, like it’s waiting for something. That’s what it feels like. Like I’m waiting for something to happen.
I glance back around at her name again, but it’s the same as it always is, just letters strung together to make up the name of a stranger. A woman I don’t know and never will. A woman no one ever talked about. A woman my father claims to love, but never speaks of. A woman who means everything and nothing to me.
I grimace and rub at my chest as a shooting pain threads its way past my ribcage. I finish my cigarette, throwing the butt to one side, and stand back up. I tear the wrapping away from the daisies before dropping them into the water with the ones I left only yesterday.
As I turn to leave, I see something.
A piece of card…an envelope sticking out from under the vase.
I frown and look around, making sure I’m completely alone before lifting the vase and taking the envelope. I jog back to my car, turning on the overhead light so I can see what it is. I half expect it to be a letter from the groundskeeper or something telling me to stay away from other people’s graves. And rightly fucking so, I guess.
But it isn’t a letter—it’s an invite.
“Invitation to Deadly Sins,” I murmur as I read it.
A smile crawls up my face. I’ve heard of this club. I know what it means.
I’ve been noticed by The Elite.
“Fuck,” I grumble, dragging clothes out from my closet.
I’ve seriously let my shit slide the past couple months in my desire to attract the attention of The Elite. It was an added bonus that it pissed Maxwell off too, of course. My father is a stickler for always dressing smart. The man doesn’t believe in smart-casual, and I’m pretty certain my grandma bought him his first suit before he was in kindergarten.
Since finding out The Elite existed, I’ve been playing a part as I slotted myself into the world of underground fighting by wearing jeans and leather jackets instead of the bespoke Brioni suits I’d been brought up in. True that even my jeans and leather jackets were more expensive than most people’s monthly salary, but that didn’t matter. Not to Maxwell, and not to The Elite.
The Elite was all about money and power. Exclusivity and upper-class privilege. They saw men like me every day: rich men living off old money. I was nothing special to people like them, so I made myself different, forcing myself to stand out from others. I used what I knew—what I was deep down inside. I used my rage and my skills with my fists to push myself out into the limelight, into a place I hated being so I would be seen and heard—so The Elite would find me instead of me finding them.
