called you, and obviously she did. She should have been calling Macone, promising everything; silence, her pussy—"
I saw nothing but red. Heard nothing but the crack of wood as I split the remaining distance between me and the barrier—and punched the door beside her head.
"You know about Macone?" I growled.
Her voice wavered. "Of course I know about Macone."
She was pale as a ghost, eyes full of fear and shards of pain like I'd actually hit her. The sad thing was as terrible as she'd been to me all my life, all the things said and thrown at me, I still could never hit her—yet she was glaring up at me like she expected it. Like I was the fucking monster. But she was the monster. Grandmothers were supposed to root for their grandkids. Spoil them. Point them toward their dreams. Look out for them.
My fist radiated pain from my knuckles that ricocheted all over my body, but it didn't compare to the fire in my chest. Her words seared a hole right through me. It ended any delusion that I might have held on to that somewhere, deep inside, she cared about me.
She knew about Macone. Unless she had a death wish, she wouldn't have mentioned his name to me unless she knew it all.
Her face shifted, the smug degradation returning to the hell pit that was her eyes. "This family has worked for the Macones since your grandfather." She made the sign of the cross. "God rest his soul." She raised her chin. She was barely half my height, but that look lowered me every time. That look turned me back into the scrawny kid I used to be. "The only worthwhile thing you’ve ever done is that job, and you're gonna throw it all away?"
"Are you serious?" I didn't need an answer. One look at her grave expression was all the answer I needed. "All these years I wanted you to notice me. To be proud of me. And you're saying that me working for Macone makes you proud?" I felt sick. Looking at her, breathing the same air she did, made me physically ill. "You know the things I've done. The people I've—" I stopped. I wasn't making any more excuses for her...or waiting for a love she was incapable of giving.
I narrowed my gaze, all the mismatched pieces clicking together. She was just an obstacle to happiness. The root of the reason why I didn't believe I was worth a damn. That I didn't deserve happiness. And she was standing in the way yet again—blocking me from going to the one person in the world that I cared about.
"You're gonna get out of my way, or I'll get you out of my way."
She arched an eyebrow in disbelief, but her chin trembled. "You wouldn't."
I wouldn't hit her, or any woman—but she didn't know me. She was so proud of me working for Macone; I'd rub her face in what that entailed.
"I beat a man until my fists were saturated in his blood. That was business. Knocking out a woman I've hated all of my life?" I smiled down at her cruelly, relishing the way she trembled. "That would be a pleasure."
She dove out of my way with an agility that should have been impossible for a woman her age. I didn't look back, plowing toward my car. Speed limit, traffic laws, none of it mattered. It should have taken half an hour to get to Victoria. I pulled into the Motel 6 parking lot in fifteen minutes.
I parked beside her Sonata, and my heart seized in my chest. Her head was trained to the front, hands locked on the steering wheel. It wasn't until I tapped on her window that she moved, jumping out of her skin and recoiling like I was going to hurt her. When she realized it was me, she leapt out of the car and into my arms.
For the briefest moment, the selfish need inside me was appeased. Happy that my girl was back where she belonged. But as sobs rocked through her body and splintered through me, that was put on the back burner. She was terrified.
And it was all my fault.
I held her as guilt ravaged me. If she had never come to visit me, if I never confessed about Benton, about the life I led, maybe she'd be where she belonged. Far away from
I saw nothing but red. Heard nothing but the crack of wood as I split the remaining distance between me and the barrier—and punched the door beside her head.
"You know about Macone?" I growled.
Her voice wavered. "Of course I know about Macone."
She was pale as a ghost, eyes full of fear and shards of pain like I'd actually hit her. The sad thing was as terrible as she'd been to me all my life, all the things said and thrown at me, I still could never hit her—yet she was glaring up at me like she expected it. Like I was the fucking monster. But she was the monster. Grandmothers were supposed to root for their grandkids. Spoil them. Point them toward their dreams. Look out for them.
My fist radiated pain from my knuckles that ricocheted all over my body, but it didn't compare to the fire in my chest. Her words seared a hole right through me. It ended any delusion that I might have held on to that somewhere, deep inside, she cared about me.
She knew about Macone. Unless she had a death wish, she wouldn't have mentioned his name to me unless she knew it all.
Her face shifted, the smug degradation returning to the hell pit that was her eyes. "This family has worked for the Macones since your grandfather." She made the sign of the cross. "God rest his soul." She raised her chin. She was barely half my height, but that look lowered me every time. That look turned me back into the scrawny kid I used to be. "The only worthwhile thing you’ve ever done is that job, and you're gonna throw it all away?"
"Are you serious?" I didn't need an answer. One look at her grave expression was all the answer I needed. "All these years I wanted you to notice me. To be proud of me. And you're saying that me working for Macone makes you proud?" I felt sick. Looking at her, breathing the same air she did, made me physically ill. "You know the things I've done. The people I've—" I stopped. I wasn't making any more excuses for her...or waiting for a love she was incapable of giving.
I narrowed my gaze, all the mismatched pieces clicking together. She was just an obstacle to happiness. The root of the reason why I didn't believe I was worth a damn. That I didn't deserve happiness. And she was standing in the way yet again—blocking me from going to the one person in the world that I cared about.
"You're gonna get out of my way, or I'll get you out of my way."
She arched an eyebrow in disbelief, but her chin trembled. "You wouldn't."
I wouldn't hit her, or any woman—but she didn't know me. She was so proud of me working for Macone; I'd rub her face in what that entailed.
"I beat a man until my fists were saturated in his blood. That was business. Knocking out a woman I've hated all of my life?" I smiled down at her cruelly, relishing the way she trembled. "That would be a pleasure."
She dove out of my way with an agility that should have been impossible for a woman her age. I didn't look back, plowing toward my car. Speed limit, traffic laws, none of it mattered. It should have taken half an hour to get to Victoria. I pulled into the Motel 6 parking lot in fifteen minutes.
I parked beside her Sonata, and my heart seized in my chest. Her head was trained to the front, hands locked on the steering wheel. It wasn't until I tapped on her window that she moved, jumping out of her skin and recoiling like I was going to hurt her. When she realized it was me, she leapt out of the car and into my arms.
For the briefest moment, the selfish need inside me was appeased. Happy that my girl was back where she belonged. But as sobs rocked through her body and splintered through me, that was put on the back burner. She was terrified.
And it was all my fault.
I held her as guilt ravaged me. If she had never come to visit me, if I never confessed about Benton, about the life I led, maybe she'd be where she belonged. Far away from
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