24. Dave
24
Dave
A lexia’s revelation hits me like a sledgehammer, obliterating everything else. Her confession twists, with the sharpness of a blade in my gut, as I tear away from the safe house. My knuckles are bloodless as I grip the wheel, the leather creaking beneath the pressure. The Maserati roars beneath me, the engine’s growl matching the chaos in my head. The road blurs in my periphery, trees merging into a smear as I drive with reckless abandon in the growing darkness.
Alexia’s name sears my mind, laced with betrayal that twists into self-loathing. I grip the wheel tighter, forcing back the urge to scream. Her words resurface, slashing through my consciousness like jagged glass. Rose is yours. These words rewrote the past five years in one brutal stroke.
I relive it all—the days after Alexia’s wedding when seeing her gutted me, watching her eyes dull under that monster’s reign.
But this pain ?
This is a wound I’m not sure will ever heal. Now I know I’ve lost more than her when she married Igor. I’ve lost moments I can never reclaim.
I don’t remember making the decision to head to Cape Cod, but when the Maserati’s speed levels out and the landscape shifts, I recognize the familiar curve of the road. The moonlight spills across Jack’s estate, casting long shadows over the sprawling grounds. The imposing house rises up before me, with its white clapboard facade and slate-gray roof. It’s nestled between the woods and the glistening bay.
The driveway crunches under the car as I pull in, gravel scattering like tiny shards of glass. The sight of this house brings a hollow ache to my chest. This was my mom’s favorite, which is why Dad has retreated here.
I step out, the chill of the evening air biting through the thin fabric of my dress shirt. Summer nights rarely get sweltering up here.
A tall figure, silhouetted against the glow of the porch light, approaches. Mason, the head of my father’s security team, nods at me, his expression a careful mask of professionalism that cracks at the sight of my face. “Evening, sir. Jack’s already turned in for the night.”
I force a smile, brittle at the edges. “It’s fine, Mason. I don’t need to wake him.”
He steps aside, his eyes lingering on me a second too long as if weighing the cost of asking what’s wrong. I stride past him, the heavy front door yielding with a familiar creak as I push it open. The foyer is warm, softly lit by the antique chandelier hanging above, its crystals catching the light and refracting it in gentle prisms. The scent of polished wood and a hint of Jack’s cologne—a mix of pine and aged whiskey—fills the space, grounding me in memories of home.
I pass through the hallway, my footsteps muted on the Persian runner that leads to my father’s study. The gleaming hardwood floor seems to whisper beneath my feet, the house holding its breath as I move. Family portraits line the walls, moments frozen in time. One shows Jack, me, and my brothers on our boating trips. Another of my mother smiling at the camera, her serene expression always welcoming us home. I stop in front of a snapshot of our first trip to Cork, the Irish village my granddad left behind for America. I smooth the glass over my five-year-old small body. My throat closes as I realize I’m gazing at my father like he’s a superhero.
Tonight, these pictures feel like knives slashing me, each one reminding me of what a parent should be, of what I’ll never get to be for Rose.
The door to Dad’s study is ajar, so I push inside. The brass handle cools my palm and I let the door fall shut behind me. The room is dim but alive with the scent of ancient books and the sharp tang of old cigars. It’s the perfect extension of Jack—strong, unyielding, and steeped in stories. The mahogany shelves stand like sentinels, packed with worn volumes and faded spines. The leather chair faces the bay window, a witness to Dad’s silent nights contemplating deals and our family legacy.
With long, swift strides, I cross the room to the liquor cabinet, the polished brass gleaming under the soft glow of the recessed lights. My fingers brush over the decanters until I find the one filled with his finest whiskey. The rich, amber liquid sloshes into the crystal glass, the scent sharp and comforting all at once. I down a generous mouthful, the burn sliding down my throat. It’s not enough to drown out the fury simmering beneath my skin.
Alexia robbed me of precious moments with my daughter, knowing how much I wanted to raise a family with her. The image of her holding newborn Rose, eyes wide with wonder, haunts me. Instead of being there, I was drowning in the darkness of my world. I was lost in the violence that consumed my days and nights.
The bastard in me, hardened by years of blood and strategy, roars at the injustice, at the years stolen. I slam the glass down on the desk, the echo sharp and final, cracking the silence.
I’ll never know the rush of learning the woman I love is pregnant or hearing my daughter’s heartbeat for the first time. This kind of shit changes a fucked-up man like me. I’ve got very few chances of having light in my dark life. These would have been fucking huge ones.
My reflection stares back at me from the darkened window, eyes shadowed, jaw clenched as if carved from granite. I’m a man used to taking what’s mine, claiming what I’ve fought for, but... this is a theft I don’t know how to fight.
The door creaks open behind me, and I spin on instinct, my hand twitching toward my hip where my gun should be. It’s only Mason, his silhouette framed in the doorway, hesitation in his stance.
“Is everything all right, sir?” His voice is cautious, as though approaching a wounded animal.
I release a breath, the tension seeping from my shoulders. “Yeah, Mason. Just... a long day.”
He nods, but the flicker of concern in his eyes doesn’t fade. “Understood. I’ll be on patrol if you need anything.”
The door clicks shut and the quiet swallows me whole. I sink into the leather chair behind the desk, the supple material molding to my body like a long-lost embrace. The whiskey glistens on the desk, taunting me with its promise of oblivion.
Alexia’s betrayal claws at my insides, a silent beast gnashing at my trust. I had loved her beyond reason. Now, that love has become a noose, tightening with every breath. Even after she left me for Igor, a part of me never stopped loving her.
But this? This is a truth I can’t run from.
She knew. All this time, she knew Rose was mine, and she kept her from me, kept me in the dark while I watched from the sidelines.
I rake my fingers through my hair, tugging at the roots as if the pain will snap me out of this spiral. Memories replay like a reel of nightmares: Rose’s soft laughter, her wide, curious eyes mirroring my mother’s.
I should have pieced it together. But rage blinded me. Any reference to my mom rips me apart to this day. So I avoid thinking of her, hoping to dull the ache of her absence. Epic failure every fucking time.
The sea breeze drifts in through a small crack in the window, the salty tang mixing with the bitter taste of regret in my mouth. I close my eyes, the room blurring as exhaustion pulls at me. The ghosts of what I’ve lost, of what I’ve never had, swirl around me. I thought I’d hardened myself enough to withstand anything, but this revelation has shattered whatever armor I had.
Giving in, I bolt upright and stretch my hand to reach for the decanter on the desk. I fill the glass with whiskey. I take both the glass and the bottle back to the leather chair, plopping myself in it. Tossing my head back, I empty the glass.
“This is going to be a long night,” I mutter, refilling the glass.
T ime ticks by, not sure how much. Now the sound of glass shattering rivals that of my own ragged breathing. I rifle through the cabinets in my father’s study, the scent of whiskey and shattered bottles mingling in the cool air. My fingers curl around the neck of a half-empty scotch bottle, but it slips and crashes to the floor, splattering amber liquid across the rich Persian rug. The splashes stain the intricate pattern, soaking deep into the fibers, much like memories I’ll never have.
My throat burns from the last gulp of whatever it was I had just drained—tequila, maybe. My vision blurs as I stagger back, the study tilting on its axis. The wooden walls close in. Outside, the sea crashes softly against the rocks, a rhythmic reminder that life moves on, indifferent to the wreckage in this room or in my life.
The door swings open and my father strides in, frowning as he takes in the scene. He’s in his robe, the regal maroon fitting a monarch. His silver hair is slightly disheveled, and the sharp angles of his face cast shadows that accentuate his piercing blue eyes.
“What happened to you?” Jack’s voice is calm, weathered by years of leadership and loss.
I grit my teeth, the words tearing out of me. “Alexia just told me I’m Rose’s father.”
The silence that follows is deafening. Jack’s gaze doesn’t waver, not a single flicker of surprise crossing his features. He steps inside and closes the door, sealing us in. I start to pace, the floor creaking under the relentless push of my boots against the wood.
“She stole from me memories I’ll never get back,” I snarl, choking on an insidious blend of fury and grief. “You know what that’s like, Dad. When you used to tell us about helping Mom, giving Tommy a bottle while she breastfed Shelby, or the late nights you spent pacifying a crying baby. I won’t have those moments. Every single milestone in Rose’s life is gone.” I stop, breathless, my heart pounding like a war drum. The air is thick with the ghosts of my dead dreams.
Jack listens with a sympathetic glint in his unwavering stare. When I pause to breathe, he interjects, “You can’t do anything about the past now. Alexia couldn’t do much back then either.”
I stop pacing for a hot second, holding my father’s stare. “I can’t believe you said that. Don’t try to convince me she had no choice,” I snap, intending my words as a sharp rebuke, but my voice cracks.
“She didn’t, son,” Jack murmurs.
The rage surges, hot and blinding. I slam my fist against the heavy desk, the echo vibrating through my bones. “She did if she believed in us. In me. She did if she believed I would’ve protected her. You know that. But she didn’t trust me enough to ask.”
Jack steps forward, closing the distance between us. His hand clamps down on my forearm, the pressure grounding me as my chest heaves. His fingers press into the tense muscle, anchoring me. “Alexia was only twenty-three then. Do you remember what it was like when you were twenty-three?” he asks, his voice as steady. “It wasn’t that long ago. Remember the decisions you made back then? Were they good ones? What about the risks you thought were wise?”
Heat rushes to my face, shame burning hotter than the whiskey in my veins. I groan, “That was different. I was reckless. Stupid.”
Dad’s lips quirk up in a faint smile. “You were. But you were also groomed for this life. You knew the dangers, understood the stakes. Alexia didn’t. She grew up sheltered from the darkness we navigate daily. And then, in a single moment, that shield against evil was stripped away. Her father, the man who had actually protected her all her life, sold her out. She was drowning, David. Who do you think she trusted then?”
Despite my alcohol-drenched brain, his words sink in, slow and unwelcome. My pulse thunders in my ears as I stare at the broken bottles, the amber trails mapping out chaos.
I snap my gaze back to his. “She should’ve trusted me,” I say. The fact that Alexia didn’t trust me cuts the deepest. A piercing ache, raw and unrelenting, claws at my chest. I lean against the desk, the wood cool and unyielding beneath my palms. “She used to trust me.”
Jack’s eyes overflow with sympathy. “She used to trust her father, too. Look where that brought her.” He cups my cheek, the roughness of his palm the usual comfort. “You’re right to feel betrayed. But imagine how twenty-three-year-old Alexia felt when the ground fell out from under her. She loved Ivan so fiercely that she chose to sacrifice herself to save him. And Igor knew just how to exploit that love.”
“That motherfucker. I never saw that evil twist coming,” I growl.
“Because your soul isn’t as dark as Igor’s.”
A bitter laugh rips from me. “I doubt that.”
“I don’t,” my dad says with conviction. “Alexia was young, unprepared, trapped in a nightmare. She made the decisions she could. Every one came at a high cost. And she’s been paying it every day since.” His voice drops. “We know Igor’s evil. Just thinking about what she endured makes my skin crawl. Alexia lived the nightmare.”
He releases my face, letting his arm drop to his side as he moves to the beige couch in front of the bookshelves. He sits with a sigh, patting the cushion beside him in a silent invitation.
I flop myself beside him, and the thought of Alexia under Igor’s threats reignites my anger. It twists in me, sharper than a blade. “We have to end him. I’ll summon the Syndicate for an emergency meeting. We’ll plan an attack, and when we find Igor, I’ll make sure he suffers. I’ll dismember him, limb by limb, and watch him die a slow, excruciating death.” My mind races through the fragments of information Nikolai uncovered, details blurred by exhaustion and whiskey. I turn, meeting my father’s eyes. “Dad, we haven’t talked about it, but we found out more dirt on Sergei and Oleg. And… there’s some shit connected to Mom. We don’t know what it means yet, but they spoke about her as if she was a danger to the Bratva.”
Jack freezes, his blue eyes sharpening to steel. Then his jaw ticks, and a wall slides into place, guarding his thoughts from me. “What could they possibly have against your mother?” The question hangs, brittle in the air.
“Exactly. It makes no sense,” I say, frustration knotting my gut. “She was out of it all, wasn’t she? Why would they think she posed a threat?”
Dad’s gaze flickers with a sudden intensity and an emotion I can’t name. Just as quickly, it’s gone. He presses his lips into a thin line and shakes his head. I bet he’s recognized whatever danger Mom’s work meant to the Mafia world, but he won’t speak on it. I know that look, have seen it in countless boardroom negotiations where truths were half-told.
He shifts, throwing an arm around my shoulders and pulling me close. His gesture steadies me, and for a moment, the storm inside me eases. “There’s nothing more you can do tonight, son,” Jack says, his tone firm yet warm. “You’re in no shape to drive, and tomorrow, you’ll see things more clearly. And you’ll see I’m right about Alexia.”
I exhale, the weight in my chest lightening enough for me to nod. “You’re always right,” I mutter, as the whiskey and exhaustion dull the edges of my anger. I lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek, hollowed by time and worry. “Love you, Dad. Thanks for being here for me.”
Jack squeezes my shoulder, his voice low and rough. “Always, son. Now go upstairs to your old room and get some rest. We’ll need our strength for what’s coming,” he says, but his eyes linger on me with an unspoken warning. A shiver runs down my spine, as if the storm outside had found its way in.
He leaves and I lean back, the study’s quiet wrapping around me. The whispers of distant waves against the shore carry through the cracked window. They sound like promises of battles yet to be fought and secrets yet to unravel. I catch the faintest rustle of the trees, like a warning carried on the wind. A reminder that the past never stays buried.