1. West
D ad kills the engine, plunging us into complete silence. We’re parked at a desolate corner of the street, far from any houses and people. I don’t need anything more to understand what’s coming. The quiet feels oppressive, broken only by the faint, distant sounds of children playing somewhere down the road.
“How much?” he asks, his voice sharp, each word cutting like a blade.
I lower my gaze, guilt rising within me, mingling with shame. I’ve never been this reckless, never lost the product before. It feels like something out of a fucking nightmare. Dad always pushed me, telling me I wasn’t doing enough. It was his way of molding me into his perfect employee. That burning need to do better, to be more responsible for him, made me the perfect fit for this business.
But I fucked up.
“About ten kilograms,” I murmur, the sound feeling alien to my ears. Whispering is not something I do; Dad claims it makes me appear weak and pathetic, stripping me of authority.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch him raising his arm, his fingers curling into a fist. He presses it against his forehead and leans forward, exhaling deeply—a familiar ritual before he begins. “I’m not a fucking parrot,” he growls through clenched teeth, “but I’m going to ask one last time, and you better speak up, not fucking mumble. How. Much?”
I straighten in my seat, my pants brushing against the expensive leather. “Ten kilograms,” I repeat, louder this time.
He nods to himself, his hand dropping and fingers uncurling in what looks like a moment of restraint. He always does this—lowers his hand and turns his face away, as if he’s letting me think he’s changed his mind.
But I know my dad better than anyone.
His fist strikes the side of my face, jerking my head to the side. One, two, three punches follow, culminating in the sickening crunch of bone as he stops, letting me spit out blood. My skin tingles, swarmed by insects beneath the surface that bring with them a dull ache. The sharp smell of metal blends with leather and expensive cologne, creating a headache between my brows.
“Thoughtless,” he mutters angrily, “irresponsible idiot. Won’t be long before you destroy the last of your brain cells, turning them into a layer of coke you keep snorting. I won’t trust you with this job again. Going forward, you’ll do the only thing you’re actually good at—beating out the information and taking their lives.”
He reaches into the glove box, retrieving a pack of wipes. As he closes it with a sharp snap, an unpleasant vibration sends a jolt through my already aching skull when he tosses the wipes onto my lap without saying a word.
“Clean the windows,” he orders, gesturing at the blood splatters I hadn’t seen. “I don’t want anyone seeing how much of an idiot my son is.”
After leaving school, fighting felt like the only thing I was good at. Actually, it was more like tearing people apart until they were barely alive. The thrill faded fast, and I moved on. Still, I couldn’t shake off one lesson from Dad—it’s vital to know how to protect yourself.
Too bad I could never protect myself from him.
I could crush him—leave him on the floor, his face a bloody wreck, just like he does to me. But when his fists fly, I freeze. Fighting him back is nothing more than a dream I’ve had since I was twelve. I’ve never acted on it, and I don’t know why. He’s the only man in the world I can’t stand up to, and I hate that I don’t know why. Maybe I’m just too fucking weak, exactly like he says.
Ignoring the steady stream of blood trickling down from what feels like every spot on my face, I comply. It’s a routine I know all too well by now. I wipe away the blood, carefully erasing the crimson streaks. My ears ring faintly, but I can still hear the distant shouts of children playing outside. When I finish, I notice two of them running alongside our car—a boy and a girl, their faces lit up with wide smiles. The tinted windows shield me from their view. They appear to be an anomaly, something that doesn’t belong in my world. Their brief moments of happiness evoke a sense of quiet confusion inside me.
What could they possibly be so happy about?
A sharp punch to my shoulder snaps me back to reality. I tear my gaze away from the kids and turn to Dad, meeting the fury in his dark eyes.
“Are you deaf?” he spits, his fingers combing through his disheveled, sweat-matted hair, now streaked with my blood. The moment I step away, though, he’ll restore himself, as always, to that polished, impeccable facade, as if this chaos never happened. I’m constantly amazed by how he reassembles his mask so effortlessly, no matter the mess. “I said, clean your fucking face. You can’t show up at a party like this.”
A frown takes shape on my expression, the movement sending a wave of discomfort through me. I can feel the blood seeping into the creases of my skin, the sticky layer clinging to me. “I thought I’d better head home,” I say while reaching for another wipe and harshly scrubbing my face.
Dad starts the engine, his focus fixed on the road ahead. He ignores me for a moment, his thumb tapping nervously against the steering wheel. I’m surprised at how composed he is. Usually, I can’t move my face or body after a confrontation like this, but today, he hasn’t even unleashed half his strength.
“If it were up to me, I’d lock you in the basement for a few days to think about your behavior,” he says, drawing in a deep breath. “But Chloe needs you at her party. She’ll be upset if you don’t show up. Plus, all your friends are expecting you.”
They’re not my friends—not even close. They’re just people caught up in this business with me, idiots I need to stay connected with in case my dad requires something from them.
But it’s not them that bothers him the most. It’s Chloe. My precious sister, an angel sent from fucking Heaven. Dad ensures that flowers accompany her wherever she goes, attending to her every need. He would kill anyone who dared to touch her or even look at her the wrong way. And if I don’t attend her latest ridiculous party, she’ll be devastated, and that’s something no one can fucking afford.
“If anyone asks, you got into a fight and lost,” he says, his voice dripping with parental authority. That excuse has become too repetitive and, frankly, suspicious. “I don’t care if you don’t feel like it. You’re going in like nothing happened, and you’re going to socialize like a normal person. If you need to snort another line of coke, go ahead. Do whatever you want, but don’t fuck this up. If I find out you ruined her party, I’ll come up with something far worse than everything I’ve already done. Got it?”
I throw my head back, snorting the blood that keeps flowing down. I’ll need more than wipes to stop it. “Got it.”
I slam the car door harder than I intended, but it’s too late for my father to say anything. Call it a small victory, I guess.
Pure, undeniable anger has reached its peak, wrapping my insides in a tight grip. The scorching path it leaves behind makes me feel feral, desperate to claw at every piece of my body. It’s hot and bright outside, as usual, the sun blasting its rays straight into my swollen eyes.
I hate the weather here. Dad expects me to stand out and hold my ground, which means wearing a suit every single day. The layers of fabric make me sweat like nothing else, compounded by the withdrawal I’m feeling now. It’s a never-ending cycle of anger that builds into agony. It feels like I’m burning in fucking hell, one that shows no signs of ending.
I storm toward one of our houses—the one we usually use for pointless parties like this one. It’s a two-story modern mansion, surrounded by palm trees and featuring a large pool in the backyard. The place looks like paradise, but for me, it feels like the opposite.
I crave solitude, a moment of peace with myself, but I’m forced to participate in whatever my family has planned. I have no choice but to obey, left only with anger to direct at others.
I keep snorting, the thick blood clogging my nasal passages and making it hard to breathe. Rubbing my nose doesn’t help, and the breeze only adds to the discomfort, slapping my face and leisurely caressing the sticky layer of blood. It makes me want to scratch my fucking skin off, to peel away until all that’s left are my broken bones.
As I walk into the backyard, I don’t bother looking at the guests my sister dragged here. Shitty pop music blasts from the speakers, mingling with the buzz of the crowd, their clinking glasses and annoying laughter filling the space. I can feel their gazes as I enter, most of them falling silent and cutting off whatever stupid conversation they were having just a moment ago.
I definitely look like I enjoy drawing attention.
Ignoring them, I focus on the slid-open door ahead, wishing only to reach the nearest faucet and wash away this unpleasant feeling from my face. But just as I’m about to get there, Noah, one of my so-called friends, jumps in front of me, blocking the entrance to the house.
“Man, we were waiting for you,” he says, a drunken smile spreading across his face. “What happened?”
Slowly, I turn around, my eyes landing on the perfect image that fuels my anger. Chloe, my sister, perches at the edge of the pool, judgment in her eyes and a disgusted grimace twisting her face. Nearby, at one of the small round tables, sits none other than Venetia Ross with her friend Grace. Grace radiates fake concern, lifting her oversized sunglasses to look at me, the same fucking desire in her eyes that’s hard to misplace. She’s tried to get me to go out with her a couple of times and received the same answer each time, yet she never gives up.
Not that I care about her. My focus is on Venetia, whose eye contact I hold. Her disgust mirrors my sister’s, if not worse. She clutches her glass with a tattooed hand, her index finger tapping against it, making the inked snake’s head move. A golden reptile adorns her neck, the jewelry resting perfectly on her pale, aristocratic chest. She hunches her bare shoulders back in her chair, shaking her head at me like she’s my fucking mother, tired of seeing her child get beaten.
Fuck her. Fuck her friend. Fuck this party.
I shove past Noah, deliberately slamming into him as I storm into the living room, my mind a buzzing mess of thoughts.
I need drugs.
In the kitchen, I find the faucet and turn on the cold water, splashing it onto my face. Once, twice, I bathe in it before I start scrubbing the blood off. Anger roils within me, bathing my insides in hot lava—an unseen force that tears at me from within. I wasn’t always this impulsive and psychotic; honestly, I don’t even remember when it all began. Sure, I got angry like anyone else, but nothing like this. Now, I can thrash the kitchen if my coffee machine glitches. It always starts with small irritations that snowball, building up until they ignite into a raging inferno.
Drugs are the only thing keeping me afloat. Under their influence, I zone out, floating somewhere far better, which helps me survive whatever new challenge life throws my way.
I groan in discomfort while washing my face, aware of the nagging pain coursing through every inch of my body. It feels like someone has burrowed under my skin, testing my patience and spreading agony through my veins—pushing the limits of what a human body can endure.
I turn off the faucet and reach for a paper towel, determined to pull off just one, but the entire roll tumbles to the floor, scattering sheets everywhere.
The universe seems to be fucking laughing at me.
As I bend down, an electric shock pulses in my body. Ignoring the pain, I grab the roll, ripping off a few sheets and crumpling them into a ball to press against my nose.
The house’s windows stretch nearly from floor to ceiling, and out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of someone. As I turn my head for a better look, a smile spreads across my face, despite the persistent throb of pain.
Eli Smith is outside—Venetia’s half-boyfriend, half-idiot, or as the kids call it nowadays, a situationship —with his hands buried in his pockets and his blonde hair plastered to the side in a feeble attempt to look cool. His dull-colored eyes scan the front of the house, trying to figure out how to get inside. I guess he hasn’t encountered a fucking glass door before.
An idea sparks in my chest, lifting my mood and dispelling my annoyance as if it never existed. I stride toward the front door, raising my hand to get his attention. When he spots me, a na?ve grin spreads across his face.
I’ll never understand why Venetia likes to spend time with him. He’s nothing like us—a humble lawyer who wears turtlenecks on every single date they have. I know this because he always picks her up in his shitty car near the business building where we both work.
Who wears fucking turtlenecks on a date?
I slide the door wide open, stepping out to block his entrance. Eli looks at me, a puzzled expression taking over his baby face. Maybe I’m delusional, but it feels like he gets smaller every time I see him. It must be humiliating for Venetia. A tall woman like her deserves someone who’s at least six fucking feet.
“Hey, Eli. Nice turtleneck,” I mock, my voice taking on a playful edge. Forget who wears this crap on dates—the real question is, why the fuck would anyone wear it when it’s blazing outside? “What’s up?”
He swallows hard, and I can almost feel the unease slithering up his spine, making him straighten up. He’s blonde, short, dressed in a turtleneck, and on top of that, he’s a fucking coward. Not that I’m a fan of Venetia, but she deserves better. Someone who won’t shit his pants when he sees other men.
“I’m here for Venetia,” he squeaks out, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “Is she here?”
I feel irritation simmering beneath my amusement as I rub my nose, my clouded mind struggling to come up with an excuse for her. “Well, she’s—” I trail off, my hands waving as if trying to start the engine in my brain. “I don’t know how to tell you this. She’s busy.”
A frown creases his brow, and he tilts his head like a confused puppy. “What? What do you mean, busy? She invited me to this party. I thought?—”
A laugh bursts from my chest, cutting Eli off mid-sentence. I raise my hand dismissively. “Sorry, man. I couldn’t hold that in. This party is for people like us, not for those who chill on van nights, you know?”
“Not quite,” he mumbles, trying to peer over my shoulder. Stubborn motherfucker. “We need to find her. She’ll confirm that she invited me.”
What a laughingstock. He’s always hiding under her skirt, waiting for her to speak up as if she has the balls, not him. I hate Venetia for what she is, but I’m not blind or stupid enough to miss how Eli has no idea what to do with everything she gives him. It’s ridiculous, and it starts to irritate me. Why does he have the audacity to show up here and demand her when he treats her like shit?
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Eli,” I say, stepping back and blocking the entrance with my hands on either side. “We have business to discuss. She’s with me .”
Anger flickers across his face, heating his round cheeks a shade of red. I bite the inside of my cheek to stifle a laugh at the sight.
“Hey, don’t be so sad,” I add, lowering my voice to a patronizing tone. “I’m sure she’ll text you later.”
I step back into the house, closing the door in front of his face, a grin pulling at my lips.
This certainly lifted my fucking spirits.