“He’s not remembering things! Is my son stupid?” His tone was on edge; after all he’d just spent thousands of dollars he didn’t have in order to get me seen by the world’s best shrink.
“Sometimes”—the doctor gave me a sad smile—“when people experience trauma, or continue to experience it, the senses completely shut off. It’s as if the body performs on autopilot. It looks like he’s aware of what he’s doing and in a way he is—and he’s powerless to stop it. After the episode, he doesn’t recall details, only that something bad happened, and the cycle repeats.”
Dad slammed his fist onto the desk. “So? He’s dumb? He’s crazy? What do we do?”
“None of the above.” The doctor had way more patience than I would have had. “Hypnotherapy might be advised, if you’re willing to have—”
“Out of the question,” Dad interrupted. “How do I know you aren’t just trying to brainwash him? How do I know—”
“Mr. De Lange.” The doctor licked her lips. “Your son needs help. You can’t just keep ignoring the problem, it will get worse. It’s almost as if…” Her voice died off.
“What?” I said numbly. “As if what?”
“As if your rage is so deep, so unforgiving, that even if you loved someone beyond measure—even if you were willing to die for someone… If they set you off, you’d kill them and you’d feel nothing.”
Well, that felt good to hear. Not only was I crazy but I was about five seconds away from killing those I loved.
“We’re done here.” Dad crossed his arms and glared while the doctor grabbed her briefcase as well as the thick manila envelope he’d given her, and walked out of our house.
“Doctors don’t know everything. The way I see it,” Dad snorted, “is you’ll be the best mafia boss in the history of the family.”
“How do you figure?” My voice dripped with sarcasm.
Dad’s grin was evil as he leaned in and patted me on the back. “You’d kill your own blood to get ahead and not even blink. Apparently, you’re more useful than I thought.”
I froze in my chair. I wanted to run, I wanted to scream but again, I felt nothing. It was as if all the darkness inside kept swallowing up the guilt and shame I should have been feeling. If anything, I was in a constant state of loss.
“So this girl.” Dad licked his lips. “The one who eats lunch with you.”
My head snapped up. Of course he’d know about Trace. After all, he was the dean of Eagle Elite. And it was for that very reason that Nixon was protecting her. He knew a pretty girl like Trace would appeal to my father’s tastes. Not that my father would ever cross Nixon, but still.
“How old is she?”
“Old,” I replied fast. “Eighteen, too old for you.”
He moved to slap me but I caught his wrist in my hand and flipped him so fast against the table that I heard his arm crack. Good, let him feel pain.
“You should probably take the doctor’s advice.” I kept twisting. “After all, I’m about five minutes away from losing my shit. Who knows what I’ll do. Remember, you said I’d kill my own family—don’t test me.” I released his arm and stomped off.
My head pounded with the memory—it seemed like an eternity ago. I’d walked away from my dad that day feeling more empowered than I had in a long time. I’d actually fought him; I’d threatened him.
A smile curved across my lips—hell yeah, that was the day I’d become invincible, and lost my moral compass.
I’d seen Trace the next day at school and noticed something was different. Nixon’s eyes were lingering on her, as well as Chase’s, but when she looked at me? Nothing. It was as if she could sense my darkness. Which pissed me off. She didn’t know me! Maybe that’s why I did it, why I tried to scare her away. If I couldn’t have her—the one girl that for the first time in my life made me want to smile—then I didn’t want anyone else to have her, either.
And that’s when I’d felt a snap.
The girl I’d raped. That same girl. She hadn’t been wanted by the client after all—just like Trace wouldn’t be wanted by Nixon or Chase if I did something to prevent it. If they could see that she wasn’t deserving. Matters were made infinitely worse when it was her fault I was excommunicated from Nixon’s inner circle. After the hell I’d been through—every sacrifice I’d made—and in the end I had nothing, all because of her. The hatred that I felt for her in that moment was stronger than anything I’d ever felt toward my dad. I wanted her to suffer because she’d stolen my family from me. I’d never loved my dad, but Nixon? Chase? Tex? We’d been blood brothers until that bitch had stepped in. I lost it—all of it.
Bile rose in my throat as I puked up blood. For the first time in seven years, I cried like a baby; the only sound in that hollow room was my own screams and whimpers. The terror on her face, her soft pleadings, and my hands, my bare hands ripping at her clothes. My teeth chattered as the memory hit me with a force so strong that I was gasping for breath. I did that. Not my dad. Me.
If I could just go back and fix things I would—and that’s why I did what I did. Because I couldn’t go back in time. That’s why I was lying in that chair. I sucked in a deep breath—they’d never know the full truth—I couldn’t let them, but I knew exactly how I could redeem the darkness my life represented.
After all—in every redemption story a sacrifice needs to be made. Maybe the sacrifice needed to be me.
Chapter Eighteen
Chase
I felt like shit. All day I alternated between wanting to shoot Nixon and wanting to shoot myself. To say my day sucked would be like saying the Sicilians were only mildly intimidating.
FYI, they were terrifying. Many a man shit their pants in their presence and I was living in my own personal hell.
How did I get so lucky?
I knew I shouldn’t have told Nixon, but I also knew I couldn’t lie to him even if I wanted to. He knew me too damn well and he could always smell a rat or liar hundreds of feet away. Which left me with blatant honesty.
I could read him as well as he could read me.
I was basically an exposed wire when it came to him.
And I knew he knew.
In that brief encounter in the study, it was as if all his fears were realized. He wasn’t stupid; he knew I was affected, but he still entrusted her to me.
So what did that say about the type of guy I was? Or the type of trust Nixon had in me?
Nixon left me alone in the study while he went to go see how the rest of Trace’s day was going. I had exactly five minutes to get my shit together and then I needed to do something, and that something was make dinner. I needed a distraction, one that didn’t start with “T” and end with a “y.”
I took a few deep breaths and strolled into the kitchen. Finding an apron, I wrapped it around my waist and poured myself a large glass of wine. I would get through this, I would make it through and I’d be fine. I’d just have to screw a lot of girls and possibly be drunk the entire time to do it. Right. No big deal.
A large gulp of wine worked wonders as I began chopping up the vegetables for my pasta ncasciata. I’d just finished arranging the eggplant and getting the peas ready when Tex walked into the kitchen with Mo.
“Aw shit.” Tex poured himself a glass of wine. “Your damn dog die, Chase?”
“He doesn’t have a dog.” Mo reached for Tex’s wine.
He pulled the wine away from her. “Get your own wine, and it’s an expression, Mo.”
She rolled her eyes and slapped me hard on the back. “What’s up, cousin? You only cook when you’re either trying to impress someone or ready to commit murder.”
“Yeah.” Nixon waltzed into the kitchen, Trace in tow. “That’s only partially true. Remember last summer when he baked for three months straight?”
“Why?” Trace came up alongside me and examined the eggplant, a confused look on her face.
I took the eggplant from her grubby hands and put it back into the bowl. “It was an experiment of sorts.” God, she smelled good.
“Experiment?” Mo choked on her laugh. “Is that what you’re calling it now?”
Tex chuckled behind me. “Chase replaced sex with cooking.”
Tracey burst out laughing. “And he lasted three months?” Seriously? Even Trace thought I was that bad of a player? Really? Well, there went my self-esteem, not that it was dangerously high or anything in the first place. After all, I’d stuck my tongue down her throat and pondered suicide all within the same amount of time it took for her to not only forget our heated exchange but kiss my cousin directly in front of me. Where the hell was a gun when I needed one?
“Oh look, dinner’s almost ready! Who wants to help with the pasta?” I clapped my hands loudly and tried to distract everyone in the room but they just kept talking.
“Three days,” Nixon snorted. “He lasted three days, but he didn’t want anyone to know about his epic failure, so he cooked dinner every night for three months.”
“That is…” Tex took a sip of his wine and grinned. I rolled my eyes and waited for him to continue. “Until we told him we already knew he’d failed but had wanted badass dinners. He bought our silence with food.”
“Bastards.” I threw a towel at Tex’s face. “I slaved for days on end for you two!”
“And we appreciate it, Betty Crocker, we really do.” Nixon smirked in my direction. The only reason I was able to smile back was because I knew he was just trying to make things normal for everyone.
We’d sit. We’d eat. And I’d pretend that I wasn’t in irreversible love with his girlfriend. No. Big. Deal.
“Need help with the pasta?” Trace grabbed my glass of wine and took a sip. It was decided. God hated me. Her lips were everywhere on my glass and now I had to drink after her? You’ve got to be shitting me.
In true Sicilian fashion I had made the noodles from scratch, which would take anyone who didn’t know what the hell they were doing a long time. “Pasta.” I pointed at my handiwork. “It’s almost done, why don’t you go relax? Drink some wine, put your feet up, do your homework.”
Trace groaned. “Did you just tell me to do my homework?”
“No?” I took a step away from her. The perfume she was wearing was literally killing me and I could only hold my breath for so long. And I was sure that if she touched me I would probably explode with frustration, or just scream and have to be institutionalized. Wonder if the mafia had connections in the loony bin.
“Look, you do have a lot of homework. Maybe Nixon can help you?”
“Help me?” she repeated, and then tilted her head to the side. Before I could back up any farther she reached up and felt my forehead. “Are you sick?”
“No.” I swatted her hand away. “I’m just… cooking.”