Secret Baby for the Italian Mafia King (Possessive Mafia Kings #29)

29. Ren

29

Ren

Staying is suicide. I know that but still. I stand at the window, looking out at the darkening sky and its long shadows. Facing east, the view gives the illusion that the sky is tilted, and all the light is slowly seeping to the west, draining away, leaving lights, water, memories.

Just down the street is the hotel where I met Nadia after our first time together. I had to bully the original owner of this townhouse out of it, but eventually, with a little pressure and a little blood, he sold. And I still gave him a damn good price for the trouble.

I had to have it. Just like I had to have her.

Nadia and I had been dating for a time, but she still didn’t give it up easily. Made me work for it. Kill for it. I liked that. I liked that she wasn’t easily impressed, that even though everyone teased and said she was crazy about me, that everyone knew she wanted to be with me—she still made me prove I was worth it.

I proved it. Back then, it was easy.

I tilt my head against the cold glass, a warm sigh fogging up the window. My own voice thunders through my head. I don’t want you here. Sometimes, I just lose it. This wasn’t one of those times. I didn’t snap on my daughter on a whim. I don’t think I ever could. It was a calculated, awful choice, and I had to be aware of it for every goddamn syllable.

I just wanted her to hate me. I just wanted her to want to go. Maybe if she wanted to get away, if she hated me, then she wouldn’t miss me or this place. She’d grow up, and she’d forget everything except for that hateful, mean man she lived with once, like a funny dream with a bad ending.

Maybe she won’t have to mourn.

I pour myself a drink, set a loaded gun out on the table, and watch the night pass over the water. I walk through all the old memories one last time. The scrapbook that my mind became during the years after.

Once I had Nadia back, that was all I knew how to do. To try and…pick up right where we left off. To replay it all again, like listening to a song to finally get it out of your head. My mouth curls down at the thought.

I swallow the last of the drink.

I test the way the gun barrel feels under my chin. Then against my temple. I let the feeling of death settling in real close wash over me, let it burn through those survival instincts that make my index finger stiff. It grows loose and pliable under my coaxing.

I am coldly sure that I could do it. That’s all the comfort I need. I could do it now and just get it done with. A business transaction with a bullet.

But I hate unfinished business.

If I’m going to hell, there are a couple people I would like to try taking with me.