18. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
Ethan
T he pile of boxes in front of the door tells me one thing—Anthony hasn’t left the house in days.
Not that he hasn’t been, because I’ve been keeping tabs on my cousin since the club incident. He was out and about for a week, drinking and using anything he could lay his hand on.
Then he stopped showing up at his usual spots, so I had my men check the places he didn’t want me to know about.
They said he hadn’t been there in three days.
I would’ve let it go—be grateful that he decided to curtail his escapades, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the possibility that he could’ve taken something.
Overdosed.
“The things you do for family,” I mutter with disgust as I walk into the apartment, inhaling the rancid smell of smoke and everything ungodly. The condo is eerily silent, which means none of the men have come around in a while.
Or they all got tired of Anthony and decided to move to another base.
Oh well.
I run my hand through my hair as I walk to his bedroom. I’m also here to… bury the hatchet. Sort of.
I’m not going to apologize for what I said or for threatening to put him down if he didn’t behave. I would do it. But Ethan is the only family I have left, and in my line of work, family is as important as the men who pledge loyalty to you.
“Anthony?” I stop in front of his door, knocking briskly. “Anthony? Open up.”
After three tries without any response, I turn away, intending to find something in the kitchen to break the door down. Then I hear a muffled voice from the other, and seconds later, it swings open.
He looks like shit.
His beard is overgrown, wild, and unkempt, with strands of hair sticking out in every direction. A filthy bathrobe hangs loosely from his shoulders, stained with God knows what.
The acrid stench of smoke clings to him, the burns from whatever he’s been inhaling leaving dark smudges on his fingers. His bloodshot eyes, rimmed with exhaustion, barely focussing as he slumps against the doorframe.
“What the fuck do you want?” His voice is hoarse, groggy. His breath is enough to make me take a step back.
I grimace, turning slightly away. “You,” I say, waving a hand in front of my nose. “I want you to take a long look in the mirror, walk into your bathroom, and fix whatever the hell this is. ”
Anthony scoffs, his chapped lips curling into something resembling amusement. “I see. Still not done bossing me around, huh?” His voice is laced with bitterness. “You think you have authority here, Ethan? That you call the shots?”
His posture stiffens, and for the first time, his gaze sharpens. “You might be a year older than me. You might own this place. But don’t forget—” he jabs a finger at his chest “—everything was supposed to be mine.”
“I’m not bossing you around,” I say, facing him again squarely. I cut through the sympathy quicker than I expected it would last. “You’re not a child, Anthony. You need to act like a functioning member of the Cross family. Go in there,” I point, “take a fucking shower and come out. I’ll be in your living room.”
“Sure,” he mumbles, then slams the door in my face. Irritation bubbles to my throat, and I reach forward instinctively, but I hold myself back at the last moment.
I could do everything without Anthony’s help, but I don’t want to exclude my family. However, if I’m making an effort to include him, then it’ll be on my terms.
As I sit in the living room… something occurs to me. Something I’ve been thinking and trying not to think about for over a week.
Natalie Monroe.
Leaving Anthony’s apartment meant leaving her, but I convinced myself I had more important things to deal with and she was just another distraction.
I tried to keep Natalie from evading every thought. Then I caught a glimpse of someone who looked like her at Luna Royale, and I thought… I thought that if I came by, I could see her.
It’s obvious she’s not here, though.
Did Anthony let her go ?
“Don’t assume I’m going to entertain you,” he says as he shuffles into the living room. His hair is dripping onto his shirt, but it’s a change from the disaster of before. “I’m not in the mood to be civil with you, and Natalie quit a couple of days ago.”
My eyes widen slightly. She quit?
“Why?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Why did she quit? I don’t know.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “She said she had other stuff to do, but she also asked me why you hadn’t been around in a while. I should’ve told her the truth—” he says sarcastically. “Told her that my cousin undermined my authority in front of a bunch of stupid people. Maybe she would’ve looked less disappointed.”
She was disappointed?
No. I shake my head. Anthony has a habit of exaggerating things. Why would someone like her—a breath of fresh air—seek out someone like me, a man who would cloud her life and steal every last ray of light?
Still, his words spark something deep in my chest, a warmth I acknowledge.
“Then again,” Anthony throws out casually, “it might’ve been because some of the men were talking about her.”
I sit up abruptly. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Anthony shrugs, the kind of nonchalant, childish gesture that only pisses me off further. “I don’t know. I think I heard someone say something about her not putting out, even though she was one of them?”
The heat in my chest turns cold. One of them.
I don’t have to ask further to know he’s talking about his women. The women Anthony brings home are never for him alone—they go around willingly. Some asshole must’ve assumed that Natalie was one of them and put their hands on her.
Bastard.
I don’t even realize I’ve clenched my fists until my knuckles ache. “Who said that?”
“Why should I care? It wasn’t my—”
Before I can reason my action, my fist is across Anthony’s jaw, and the brunt sends him sprawling to the floor. I stand over him as the haze clears from my eyes, but I don’t have any regret.
Instead, I’m filled with more rage.
“Who,” I grit my teeth, “the hell, laid a hand on her? You’re going to sober the fuck up and tell me, or I swear, I’ll treat you like you’re not family.”
***
Two hours later, I’m in my house.
My sleeves are folded, and my chest is heaving. My knuckles are bruised from hitting bone so hard they shattered, and two men are on the floor of my living room, begging for their lives.
“You touched her,” I shake my head as a mean smile curls my lips. “You laid your filthy hands on the woman I like!”
“Boss,” one of them scrambles to his knees, begging with a scratchy voice. “We didn’t know she was yours. We thought she was for Anthony. I promise you—” he pauses to wipe blood from his mouth, “when we found out, we didn’t do anything after. I left her alone. We all did.”
It doesn’t matter.
The fact that they touched Natalie is enough grounds for me to make them beg for death .
But I feel guilt , too, knowing that she must’ve thought I allowed something like that to happen, that she hung around, probably hoping I would provide answers.
For the first time, I feel failure. The realization almost brings me to a staggering kneel.
“Get out,” I exhale. “Get out, or I’ll make it impossible for you to leave.”
Somehow, they slink away, leaving me alone in the silence. The moment the door shuts, the weight of everything crashes down on me.
I drag myself to the couch, but my knees give way before I make it, and I sink heavily. My battered fingers rake through my hair, and in my chest, an ache—raw and unrelenting—gnaws at me.
I pushed Natalie away at first and judged her unfairly. Then I let her in, took more than I had any right to, only to pull back when it suited me. And now, when she needed me the most, I wasn’t there.
No more.
I push to my feet, grab my car keys, and head for the door, my mind fixed on one thing.
I have to make this right.