Fuck it.
I cut a line on the glass coffee table. The familiar ritual steadies my hands. I roll a bill and lean down, inhaling sharply. The burn hits my sinuses, and my head snaps back.
The rush floods through me. Edges blur. The rage softens, just slightly. Just enough.
I cut another line. And another.
By the third one, my heart is racing. The tremor in my hands has stopped. Everything sharpens, then softens. The thoughts slow down. The guilt recedes.
I can breathe again.
I sink onto the leather couch and let my head fall back. The cocaine sings through my veins, sharp and electric. Everything comes into focus. The chaos in my head organizes itself into clear, manageable problems.
I need to protect her. Need to lead this family. Need to be strong enough to handle this.
And right now? I am.
The self-doubt, the guilt, the constant fucking noise, it's all quiet now. I can think. I can plan. I can be the man they need me to be.
I sit up with an itch to do something, go find the shooter, and put him ten feet under.
My phone buzzes.
I ignore it.
It buzzes again.
I pull it out, ready to throw it across the room. But the number on the screen makes me freeze.
Unknown.
I stare at it for a long moment. Every instinct screams not to answer. But curiosity wins.
I swipe to accept the call and bring the phone to my ear.
"William Murphy." The voice is smooth. Cultured. Familiar in a way that makes my skin crawl.
I sit up slowly. "Who is this?"
A low chuckle. "You don't recognize your own uncle's voice? I'm hurt, William. Truly."
The cocaine makes everything feel distant, but that voice cuts through the haze like a knife.
Frank.
"You're supposed to be dead," I say.
"Supposed to be, yes. But here we are." Another chuckle. "I heard about poor Dillon O'Rourke. Terrible business. And on such an auspicious occasion, too."
The cocaine-fueled clarity sharpens into something cold. Frank calling right after Dillon gets shot? That's not a coincidence.
"Was it you?" The words come out flat. Dangerous. "Did you have him shot?"
A pause. Then that smooth voice again, but with an edge now. "No, William. I didn't. Though I understand why you'd think so." Another pause. "If I wanted Dillon O'Rourke dead, he'd be dead. And you'd never trace it back to me. This...this was sloppy. Obvious. Not my style."
My grip tightens on the phone. "What do you want?"
"To offer my condolences, of course. And to congratulate you on your engagement. Though I must say, starting a marriage with your bride's father bleeding out does set quite the tone."
