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“Is that so, Killa’ K?” he sneers, obviously trying his hand at an insult as well.

Unlike him, I clock that shit immediately and let it roll right past me.

“Let them go.”

No one moves, pissing me all the way off.

I tell Kota, “Take your mom and go upstairs. I’ll—”

“Hey, you’re not in charge.”

“Who is?” I challenge the scout.

The third guy, the one that’s been silent up until now, casually says, “This doesn’t need to get out of hand. We all want the same thing.”

“I want my girl and her mom to go upstairs.”

“We don’t.” Enzo eye-fucks the absolute shit out of Kota.

“Get your eyes off her or I’ll knock them out of your fucking head!” Without giving him the chance to correct his mistake, I step forward and headbutt him, nailing him in one of those eyes. Unfortunately, it doesn’t actually knock the eyeball loose—I knew it wouldn’t—but the swelling should impair the fuck out of his vision soon enough.

“Ow! Shit!”

Covering that eye, he tries to point the gun at me again but his aim’s a little off now.

I don’t so much as flinch, silently daring him to shoot me with it.

“Enzo, fall back,” the third guy instructs with authority, before telling me, “Cooperate.”

He’s the leader. So we got the leader, the scout, and the muscle. What a trifecta of dumbfucks.

“I don’t owe you shit. I don’t owe your boss shit. You can all get fucked as far as I’m concerned.”

Turning my attention to my dad, I lick my top teeth as I wait for him to say something, anything, to clear up what’s obviously a mistake.

Instead, he pleads with the leader, saying, “It’s not his fault. He’s a victim of this disorder.”

I’m back to shaking my head. Abso-fucking-lutely not.

“I’m telling you right fucking now, old man, you better stop with that shit.”

“Son.”

“Don’t,” I warn him.

“Your gambling—”

Head thrown back, the sound of my laugh echoes off the foyer walls and ceiling.

He’s trying to save his own ass, a survival instinct every living being on earth possesses, but he’s throwing me, his only son, under the bus to do it. Only a select few pieces of shit are willing to go that low.

“Ah, Pops, what a disappointment you ended up being, huh?”

“Now, son—”

“Stop calling me that. You’re no father. You’re a fucking disgrace.”

We study each other, both in utter disgust. Mine? Mine’s understandable. But what the fuck does he have to be disgusted with me about?