Brawler's Baby: An MMA Mob Romance (Mob City Book 1) by Holly Hart Page A
Authors: Holly Hart
Ads: Link
remembered what happened when I disobeyed him, even if it was over something so trivial as forgetting to put away a toy.
The man was an emotional terrorist – but he rarely directly targeted the subjects of his anger. No, his attacks came in forms too varied and numerous to count, or to prepare yourself for, but one thing was constant – they always came.
My mother stood in front of me in my mind's eye, a long-suffering, fearful look upon her face as she stood between Papa and I . Even then, I knew not to cry – I knew what happened to little girls who cried .
" Get away from her!" My mother begged.
"You don't tell me what to do, woman." Papa had hissed in response. "I told you, she's too fucking old to carry that teddy bear around."
"Mika," my mother said, using her nickname for him. The nickname reminded me of the happy times. Or maybe I'd simply made them up, because I remember many of them. "Mika, she's seven!"
"Look at me Maya," Papa snarled. I didn't dare look at him. I couldn’t bear to see the rage contained in his black, beady eyes.
I heard a crack. I saw my mother fall backward and cry out, holding her face.
"I told you to look at me," he said, his voice gravelly. I'd clutched the teddy bear even tighter to my chest, but I'd looked up, my lips trembling .
" You see what happens to girls who don't obey?" He said. He was holding my mother upright by the fabric of her sweater, and she was clutching her face, doing her best not to cry in front of me. Her face was empty of expression, save that of one of acceptance, of submission. She had a faraway look in her eyes, too – as if she was in a different place, a better place. My mother spent a lot of time there, then.
In fact, this was the first time I could remember seeing her feel anything in months.
"Did you hear me?" He screamed. I nodded, terrified, desperate to save my mother from another beating .
" You will put away your toys, and you won't touch them again."
I nodded. He turned back to my mother. "Drop your hands," he said. She did as he asked without a word of complaint. She wasn't there, not really. My father had looked me straight in the eye, and slapped her in the face. Her legs crumpled, but he kept her upright, only to hit her again.
And again.
And again .
And then he dragged her to the bedroom. And that’s when the noises started.
"Are you listening to me?" My father barked.
I blinked, half-shocked at how deeply I had fallen into the memory, and half by how little things had changed, even a decade and a half later. I knew better than to tempt my father's anger like this – especially when he was in this kind of mood.
"Of course, father."
"Understand," he growled. "That if you interrupt me like that again, ever again, I will kill you."
He said it matter-of-factly, as though there could be no more logical response to something so small than murder. And, in my father's twisted mind, there probably wasn't.
I nodded desperately. "Yes, Papa. I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me – you don't normally have me in the room, that's all…"
He released me. "You're weak, Maya," he sighed. "Like your mother."
I bit my lip, hard enough to draw blood, but I don't know why I bothered. If I was going to say anything, I'd have said it years ago. He was right – just not the way he thought he was. I wasn't weak because I couldn't stomach the sight of a man being beaten half to death, and my mother hadn't been weak, either.
But I was weak. I was weak because day after day, I failed to stand up for what I knew was right. Weak because I failed to stand in my father's way, to stand up for his victims and--
And most of all, I was weak because I was failing in my sole duty as a mother – I couldn't protect Eamon. My father was aging, and he'd long ago despaired of any prospect of my replacing him as head of the family. He thought I didn't have the stomach for it – and he was right. But now, desperate for an heir, his eye had fallen upon my
The man was an emotional terrorist – but he rarely directly targeted the subjects of his anger. No, his attacks came in forms too varied and numerous to count, or to prepare yourself for, but one thing was constant – they always came.
My mother stood in front of me in my mind's eye, a long-suffering, fearful look upon her face as she stood between Papa and I . Even then, I knew not to cry – I knew what happened to little girls who cried .
" Get away from her!" My mother begged.
"You don't tell me what to do, woman." Papa had hissed in response. "I told you, she's too fucking old to carry that teddy bear around."
"Mika," my mother said, using her nickname for him. The nickname reminded me of the happy times. Or maybe I'd simply made them up, because I remember many of them. "Mika, she's seven!"
"Look at me Maya," Papa snarled. I didn't dare look at him. I couldn’t bear to see the rage contained in his black, beady eyes.
I heard a crack. I saw my mother fall backward and cry out, holding her face.
"I told you to look at me," he said, his voice gravelly. I'd clutched the teddy bear even tighter to my chest, but I'd looked up, my lips trembling .
" You see what happens to girls who don't obey?" He said. He was holding my mother upright by the fabric of her sweater, and she was clutching her face, doing her best not to cry in front of me. Her face was empty of expression, save that of one of acceptance, of submission. She had a faraway look in her eyes, too – as if she was in a different place, a better place. My mother spent a lot of time there, then.
In fact, this was the first time I could remember seeing her feel anything in months.
"Did you hear me?" He screamed. I nodded, terrified, desperate to save my mother from another beating .
" You will put away your toys, and you won't touch them again."
I nodded. He turned back to my mother. "Drop your hands," he said. She did as he asked without a word of complaint. She wasn't there, not really. My father had looked me straight in the eye, and slapped her in the face. Her legs crumpled, but he kept her upright, only to hit her again.
And again.
And again .
And then he dragged her to the bedroom. And that’s when the noises started.
"Are you listening to me?" My father barked.
I blinked, half-shocked at how deeply I had fallen into the memory, and half by how little things had changed, even a decade and a half later. I knew better than to tempt my father's anger like this – especially when he was in this kind of mood.
"Of course, father."
"Understand," he growled. "That if you interrupt me like that again, ever again, I will kill you."
He said it matter-of-factly, as though there could be no more logical response to something so small than murder. And, in my father's twisted mind, there probably wasn't.
I nodded desperately. "Yes, Papa. I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me – you don't normally have me in the room, that's all…"
He released me. "You're weak, Maya," he sighed. "Like your mother."
I bit my lip, hard enough to draw blood, but I don't know why I bothered. If I was going to say anything, I'd have said it years ago. He was right – just not the way he thought he was. I wasn't weak because I couldn't stomach the sight of a man being beaten half to death, and my mother hadn't been weak, either.
But I was weak. I was weak because day after day, I failed to stand up for what I knew was right. Weak because I failed to stand in my father's way, to stand up for his victims and--
And most of all, I was weak because I was failing in my sole duty as a mother – I couldn't protect Eamon. My father was aging, and he'd long ago despaired of any prospect of my replacing him as head of the family. He thought I didn't have the stomach for it – and he was right. But now, desperate for an heir, his eye had fallen upon my
Similar Books
