4. West
T he walls of the nursing home seem to shrink, an unseen pressure pushing in on my shoulders. The aroma of cookies clashes with the harsh scent of cigarettes, the drifting smoke a strangely calming presence beside me.
I fucking hate this place. Every time I come here, guilt wells up, and my anxiety spirals. Everything in here bothers me—the staff in their spotless white scrubs and plastered-on smiles, the aging yellow walls, and the sense of despair that lurks in every corner.
Just as I savor the crack of my fingers, a sudden slap lands on my hand, followed by a throaty cough beside me, sending an even denser wave of smoke. “How many times do I have to fucking remind you that I hate it when you do that?” My eyes lock onto hers, catching the wild glimmer that never seems to fade. “I swear to God, your joints will be fucking destroyed in a few years. Do you want that?”
I smile, earning a light slap on the back of my head in response. No matter how tough she tries to act, her gentle parenting—masked by feigned anger—always amuses me.
Delilah Cruz is a motherfucking G. Before I turned twelve and Dad took over my parenting—if you can even call it that—she was the one who took care of me. I wouldn’t call my grandma normal by any means; she taught me how to smoke weed when I was ten, beat up the boys who bullied me at school, and dropped the swear words more often than she blinked. She is the epitome of the coolest and most unconventional woman I’ve ever known, and she’s the only thing keeping me grounded these days.
Before this fucking nursing home, we were inseparable. I still remember attending business meetings with her in a suit that matched hers, learning the ropes of the job.
Everything changed when she got sick. Cancer took hold, draining the life out of her and pushing her beyond her limits. She recovered, of course—she’s always been one hell of a fighter—but it took a heavy toll on her health. No matter how many times I urged her to move into one of our houses and hire a nurse to care for her when I wasn’t around, she flat-out refused. Her reasons were twofold: first, she hated my father, often saying I was the only good thing he ever made in his life. Strangely, she never blamed me for her daughter’s death, unlike my dad.
My mother gave birth to Chloe first, but she struggled when it was my turn. To this day, I don’t fully understand why, but it was a difficult delivery, and ultimately, she didn’t survive.
In my family, I’m considered a murderer, but Delilah is the only one who doesn’t see me that way. It fucking hurts to leave the only person who loves me in this shithole.
As for the second reason, she claims to like her friends here, insisting that the staff caters to her every whim. I’ve thought about using my power to do the paperwork and forcefully move her to one of our houses, but knowing her, she’d knock us all out and run right back. I don’t want to put her through that kind of stress at her age.
“I keep forgetting it,” I mumble, letting my arms drop to my sides to keep myself from cracking my joints. I’ve picked up a habit that always seems to irritate her.
Annoyance flickers across her wrinkled face as she takes a drag of her cigarette, leaving a red lipstick stain on the paper. “Then tattoo a reminder on your fucking forehead. I’d whoop your ass if we weren’t surrounded by people.”
A chuckle threatens to escape, but I stifle it, knowing it would just annoy her more. She hates it when I don’t take her seriously.
A staff member walks by, her eyes locked on the cigarette dangling from Grandma’s mouth. She purses her lips into a thin line before lowering her head and hurrying away.
She knows it’s wiser to keep her mouth shut than risk hearing a storm of curses.
“How are you doing here?” I ask. “Need me to bring anything next time?”
She shakes her head. “Doing good.” With a smirk, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out some folded bills. “Made another two hundred yesterday. These fuckers are terrible at every game. It’s like their brains are fried.”
I roll my eyes, tilting my head in a mock-judgmental manner. “You’re still robbing them of the pennies they receive? Come on.”
I can’t recall when it started, but it has become her tradition. She’s always been good at poker, blackjack, and games like that. Delilah made sure I mastered those skills when I was eleven.
Now, she plays with the residents here, and since she’s literally unbeatable, they lose every time. What began as innocent fun has turned into a competitive venture. This is Delilah Cruz we’re talking about—a woman born in a business suit who always seeks new ways to profit.
It’s not like she needs the money; she just enjoys the thrill of the game. Cash is more of a nice little bonus.
“Be careful. If their kids find out and come here to confront you, I won’t hold back. We’ll end up leaving on a bad note,” I warn.
“They won’t bother,” she replies calmly, stamping out her cigarette in her cup. “Little shits don’t give a fuck about their parents. Every time you visit, these old farts start to whine about not seeing their children and grandchildren for ages. It makes me want to ask you to stop coming here. I don’t know how much longer I can endure listening to this crap.”
I lift the cup of cold coffee from the table and take a sip, welcoming a wave of bitterness. “That’s sad, but it won’t stop me from coming here.”
She remains silent for a moment, watching me finish my coffee. “How’s your dickhead of a father doing? Same old thing?”
When I put the cup down, her fingers touch the bruise on my nose, triggering a surge of pain. I grimace and turn my head to the side, evading her touch. “Same old. Up to his ears in work.”
She snorts. “The motherfucker owns the entire Cathedral City, yet it’s still not enough for him. I never understood what Millie saw in him. Greedy piece of shit.”
I stay silent, at a loss for words. According to the memories Grandma shared, my parents were madly in love. I can’t deny the love my father had for Mom—not after seeing how devastated he was when she died. Not a day goes by without hearing him tell me I’m unworthy and that he blames me for her death. If he didn’t love her, he wouldn’t act like this.
“You holding up?” A nudge on my shoulder jolts me from my thoughts. “How long have you been clean?”
Nothing irritates me more than when a conversation takes a turn like this. I don’t like lying to her, and it’s fucking pointless. She’s always had a knack for reading people. “A day.”
She leans back in her seat, crisscrossing her feet. “Good. How are you feeling?”
Like I’m burning from the inside, and my body itches with the urge to do something—whether it’s cracking my joints or smashing my fucking skull against the wall next to us. “I’m fine.”
A welcome distraction comes as my phone starts ringing, cutting off the unpleasant conversation. Exhaling in relief, I pull it from my pocket without checking who’s calling. “Yes?”
“Your car is on fucking fire,” Dad shouts, his voice drowning in the chaos around him—the splashing of water, the wailing of sirens, and the screams of panicked people.
My eyes dart around as I struggle to comprehend what the fuck he is talking about. “What? Which one?”
“Your precious Bugatti, you fucking idiot. Get over here and handle the mess. I can’t have any unwanted attention right now.”
With that, he hangs up. I pull the phone from my ear and pinch the bridge of my nose, the confusion in my mind growing thicker by the second. This is absurd. How the fuck did it catch fire?
“What happened?” Grandma asks, tilting her head as she gauges my reaction.
“I have no fucking idea,” I reply, getting up to snatch my blazer from the chair. I lean down to kiss her forehead before adding, “Something’s definitely gone wrong. I’ll call you later. Try not to rob anyone else while I’m gone.”
With that, I turn and stride toward the exit, my anxiety flaring up with each step.
“Show me the footage,” I demand from Antonio, the guard who was supposed to watch this place while it was empty. The idiot chose to take a piss right when everything happened.
His fingers tremble as he opens the app, revealing the camera footage from the evening. The tension radiating from him is palpable; I can hear his heavy breathing, and to be honest, it pisses me the fuck off. He’s shaking like a leaf with fear, and while I’m not planning on killing him—not today, at least—I won’t leave this job to him. He fucked up, and he’s about to be fired.
It’s not that I usually get attached to things, but fuck it, I loved that car. The emptiness in my chest howled when I stepped into the yard and saw it reduced to a fucking crisp.
It’s completely, irrevocably destroyed. Sure, I can buy a new one, but it won’t feel the same. That car was the first dream I ever achieved. Dad never allowed me to lean on him for support; I had to earn my way as if I were his employee. No benefits—nothing at all. Chloe always counted in the firm, but never worked a day, leaving me to carry both her weight and my own, and I earned everything I fucking have, including that car.
“I’ll… I’ll rewind it?—”
“Get the fuck up,” I bark, waving my hand dismissively. My patience evaporates entirely, and anger sweeps through me like wildfire, engulfing me from within and without. I managed to keep my cool around Grandma, but now I’m back to my usual state of frustration.
I could’ve spent more time with her—just in fucking peace—but apparently, a person like me doesn’t deserve a single moment of tranquility.
Gripping Antonio by the shoulder, I shove him away. “You’re fucking fired,” I add, dropping into the chair and turning my attention to the cameras. I can feel him wanting to mumble his pathetic excuses, but thankfully, he’s smart enough to keep them to himself. As soon as I hear the door click shut behind me, I narrow my eyes and scroll through the footage to find the right timestamp.
A silhouette emerges from the darkness, jogging swiftly across the street. I switch to the other camera capturing the yard and watch her climb over the fence, moving closer to my car. A jolt of electricity races through me as I recognize her—the tattoo snaking up her hand and the long, sharp nails leave no doubt in my mind. She flicks on a lighter, and for a brief moment, the flame illuminates her face. Even in the dim lighting and the low quality of the footage, I can see the smirk curling on her lips.
My body goes cold, and I stop paying attention to my car. In an instant, it becomes my least concern. My focus shifts entirely, my eyes glued to her while I struggle to blink. She watches the flames dance, clearly enjoying the chaos, then turns to me, pulls down her hood, and gives me the middle finger.
Venetia fucking Ross. Of course. I shouldn’t be surprised that she knows about my prized possession and recognizes the perfect moment to strike. She’s the cunning snake who knows everything about everyone, especially her enemies. That bitch is an expert manipulator, extracting information that seems impossible to get.
Leaning closer to the monitor, I press the button to rewind the video, pausing it on her face as it captures the pure amusement in her eyes that shines through. My fist clenches as I stare, anger flooding my consciousness like a hot, prickling tide.
Smart little serpent. She must have gone to her idiotic boyfriend’s place and uncovered the little lie I told him. I’m convinced she drove all the way to that ugly house simply because he ignored her calls and texts. It’s ridiculous how she humiliates herself like that.
I picture her getting into her car, anxiety etched on her face as she tears the skin around her nails—a nervous habit she thinks no one notices. The image fills me with a deeper fury than anything she’s done to me. A woman like her, wasting her potential on that scumbag…
Why the fuck am I even thinking about that?
My weariness is almost unbearable, pressing down on me like a leaden weight. But her image, stark and bright on the screen, triggers a sudden sense of awareness.
Venetia has never lost control. She’s called a snake for a reason—cold, calculating, always watching from beneath her thick lashes, her gaze chilling your blood.
But tonight, she lost it. She acted on her emotions, stormed into my yard, and burned down my fucking car. Something I never thought possible has occurred.
The little serpent finally showed her fangs.
She isn’t as unemotional as she pretends, which means I have more influence over her than I realized. I can do a lot of things, and right now, my mind races with various thoughts, all centered on the same image—my hands wrapped around that slender neck, squeezing tightly enough to finally silence her and teach her a hard fucking lesson. If she thinks we’re even, she’s sorely mistaken.
This won’t be forgotten, and I’ll make sure she deeply regrets her fucking actions.