That same sonovabitch is still reaching into his life.
Still trying to control things.
Still pulling strings.
Including the one that sent a motorcycle gang after his business.
After his own son.
My Benji.
My stomach twists. I shouldn’t think of him like that, but how can I not?
“So, this isn’t just a conversation then,” I say carefully. “It’s a confrontation.”
“Probably,” he mutters. Shrugs.
I look at him then.
Really look.
And his eyes—those deep sapphire eyes—they’re blazing.
Not just with anger.
With something else.
Something sharper.
Something that feels like it’s not just about his father.
It feels like he’s saying something to me, too.
Like this is about more than that particular aspect of his past.
More than bad blood.
More than revenge.
Like this is about who he is now.
Who he’s choosing to be.
And maybe it’s about who he’s choosing to be with.
My pulse stutters.
“Benji,” I start, not even sure what I’m going to say.
He glances at me then.
Just for a second.
But it’s enough.
Because there’s something in his expression I’ve never seen before.
Not back then.
