Page 45 of Shattered In Darkness

“What the hell, Brody?” Her voice is tiny.

“Not your problem,” I say. I don’t pause.

She reaches for me, some old habit. I jerk away. She can smell it. The blood, the hate.

She recoils. “Are you okay?” She tries again. Won’t quit. Annoying, helpless.

“Go back to your show.” My voice cuts, flat and robotic. “Forget you saw anything.”

She tries to protest. I ignore it. My head is a furnace. My fists drip. I want answers and I want them now. Dad’s home. His office door is shut but the lamp underneath leaks yellow. I don’t bother knocking, kicking the door open. It slams against the wall.

Richard is at his desk, sleeves rolled. He doesn’t even look shocked by the blood as he looks up like he’s been waiting for this.

“You spying on her?” I’m nearly shouting. The words rip out of me. “You send some asshole to her house with a fucking camera, is that your game now?”

He blinks. Doesn’t flinch. “Had to make sure she was contained. You don’t do your homework, I hire someone else.”

I slam both fists on his desk, papers explode everywhere. “You don’t watch her like that. Not without going through me first.” My pulse is thunder. My fists ache to break something.

He licks his lips, slow, predator in a better suit. “Control your temper. Sit down, Brody.” I don’t sit. I want to throw this desk across the room. I want to wrap my hands around his throat, see if he’s as tough as he pretends. “If you were competent, I wouldn’t have to hire anyone. You let your dick and your feelings get in the way. Don’t be sentimental. It’s embarrassing.”

Sentimental. Fuck him. I want to beat his head against the wall.

I lean in, sweat streaming down my jaw. “You don’t fucking touch her.”

His mouth curls. “She’s nothing, Brody. Leverage. If Marcus acts up, she’s bait. If she flips, she’s a liability. That’s all. You want to protect her? Fine. Do your job because if you don’t, I will.”

I slam my fist down again, harder. A pen cracks under my palm. The blood on my hands leaves stains on the white pages. “You think I can’t handle her? You think you’re the only one who knows how this works?”

He is silent, a beat too long, calculating, always calculating. “You’re unpredictable. That’s why you’re useful but not reliable. You let emotions rot your spine. Just like her. Just like your mother.” His voice scrapes.

Everything in my head is red. I laugh. “That supposed to hurt me? You’re pathetic. You think being empty makes you strong?”

He tilts his head like a reptile. “It does. Weak men die. I taught you that.” He stares, icy. “Do you remember your mother at all? She was always so sure she could fix things with hope and tenderness. Look where it got her.”

He says “her” like she’s a stain he can’t wash out.

I snatch a folder off the desk. “You want Lola spied on, do it yourself. You want her erased, tell me yourself. No more middlemen. No more creepy bloodless rats with cameras.”

He shrugs. Unmoved. “You care so much about her, but you don’t even know what she is anymore.”

“She’s mine. Doesn’t mean I still care.”

He smirks. “Not for long.”

The urge to bash open his skull is so strong I see stars. But I just stand there, shaking, vibrating with hate. He studies my wounds. The blood, the way I barely hold myself back. He likes it. He thinks it means he’s winning.

He lowers his head to the paperwork. “You’re not the worst thing to come out of me, but you’re not my equal. Don’t pretend you ever will be.”

He’s a monster.

I stare at him. My father. The man who crawled out of whatever black lake and called it ambition.

Richard Voss, king of nothing, sitting behind his desk like he owns the city, but I see the veins in his temples. Pop. Pop. He wants to think he’s a slab of marble, but rage always gets in. Rot will ruin even diamonds, if you give it time.

I grip the folder with shaky hands, blood smearing. Hate is a physical thing. It lives in my jaw, in my fists, in the spike in my skull that wants to pound the desk straight down to the dirt.

He ignores my stare. He’s drawing a line under a contract. Even after all that noise, the blood, the threat, he’s just bored. Annoyed. Nothing gets through. Not since Mom. Not since her bones left stains on the tow truck ramp.