Chapter 28 #2
I get back to my penthouse and pull out the tarot card Lilith pressed into my palm before I left.
The Tower. Lightning strikes a stone structure, sending figures tumbling through the air.
I run my thumb over its worn edge, remembering her words about foundations crumbling to make way for something stronger.
Something truer. The card feels heavy in my hand—heavier than it should—like it's carrying the weight of everything I need to let burn down before I can rebuild.
The doorbell rings and my heart leaps. Lilith? No—she's six hours north in Big Sur. I swing the door open to find Silas, his hands jammed in his pockets.
"Hey, Rome," he says, shifting his weight.
I step back. "Family sent their diplomat, or is this a personal visit?"
"Bit of both. Was nearby and thought I'd roll the dice."
I gesture toward the bar. He follows. Two fingers of Macallan, no ice. The amber liquid catches the light as I slide his glass across.
Silas clears his throat. "Look, about the family meeting—"
"Let me guess," I cut in. "The brothers took a vote on whether I need a straitjacket, brain surgery, or just heavy pharmaceuticals. The trifecta, perhaps?"
Silas laughs. "Still the dark humor, I see. No, we don't think you need an intervention. But there's something you should know."
I nod. "Go on."
Silas clears his throat, his eyes meeting mine.
"The family has your back, Roman. Always.
We think maybe you've got this idea we're pushing you away because you won't forgive Dad.
" He leans forward, voice dropping. "That's bullshit.
We're Kensingtons, man. Same blood." He taps his chest twice with his fist. "I'm here because I need you to hear this—your place is with us.
Your feelings about Dad? They're yours. We might see it differently, but that doesn't change a damn thing about how we feel about you. "
I nod, my chest constricting. "Thanks," I rasp, swallowing hard.
"There's something else. When Dad first showed up, I felt exactly like you did. I just... kept quiet. You had the balls to speak up when I didn't. The others welcomed him with open arms, and I just went along with it. But between us? I was on your side the whole time."
"I knew it," I say, biting back the "soy boy" comment hovering on my lips. For a split second, I want to rip into him for not having the spine to stand with his own brother. Instead, I exhale slowly. The guy drove all the way here just to check on me. That counts for something.
“Roman, listen to me." His voice dropped to a raw whisper.
"I sat across from Dad last night. Just us.
And I made myself really hear him. He broke down—completely shattered—admitting he should've gotten help.
But God, Roman, he was planning to kill himself.
Planning it. The drinking? That was the only goddamn thing keeping him from pulling the trigger.
He was drowning. Nothing made sense anymore.
Eight children to raise alone when Mom—his everything—was suddenly gone.
He told me when she died, he'd stand in the shower each morning and scream until his throat bled, just to feel something besides the emptiness. "
Huh. I know a thing or two about that—about letting the shower drown out your screams, about craving any sensation that isn't the hollow ache inside your chest.
"Look, after actually giving Dad a chance—really listening instead of just waiting for my turn to talk—I get it now.
He recognized he was poison as a role model.
He was afraid we'd become his mirror image—the bottle, the darkness, the weakness.
Now he sees eight successful men and thinks, 'I did the right thing by leaving.
' And maybe there's truth there, Rome. Even if he'd gotten sober, gotten help, the reality is he couldn't handle raising eight boys alone.
Our grandparents could. If he'd stayed...
broken as he was... who knows what kind of damage we might be carrying now. "
"But look at the damage we are carrying now," I counter, my voice rougher than I intended.
"We're all broken to a certain degree." I run my hand through my hair, feeling that familiar tension in my jaw.
"Maybe none of the brothers are as fucked up as me, but they've got their own shit—they just don't explode like I do. "
I tick them off on my fingers. "Connor developed such severe social anxiety that he could barely speak without stuttering.
Those little bastards at school tormented him until I had to beat the living hell out of them.
Asher's obsessive-compulsive disorder got so bad he'd wash his hands until they bled.
Kalen's agoraphobia kept him trapped in the house for three years straight—he'd have panic attacks so bad he'd pass out if we tried to get him outside.
You developed selective mutism and didn't speak a single goddamn word for two years—not one. "
I shake my head. "Even the ones who look fine aren't. Ansel puts on that sunshine act, but I used to hear him crying in his room.
Cameron escaped to Africa to save everyone but himself.
And Max—Christ, Max grew up with such fears of abandonment.
He couldn't trust anyone to stay. Every time someone got close, he'd sabotage it because he was convinced they'd leave him like Dad did.
If Granddad hadn't shoved Celeste at him and forced them together, Max would still be alone. "
I press my palms against my eyes. "But I'm the only one still bleeding.
Connor is an A-List actor who has no problems speaking.
Kalen travels the world, touring. You won't shut up.
Max has Celeste. Asher's OCD makes him a fortune planning events.
They all got better. I'm still just... broken.
" I drop my hands, suddenly exhausted. "That's why I feel so fucking alone, no matter how much you insist that you all love me. "
Silas nods, his fingers drumming against his knee.
"Look, I get it. We all carry scars from back then.
" His voice drops. "Cameron used to wake up screaming for her.
I couldn't speak. You broke your hand punching that wall when you were twelve.
" He leans forward, eyes locked on mine.
"But imagine if Dad had stayed—bringing whiskey bottles to our baseball games, passing out during parent-teacher conferences.
Seven more years of that darkness. Ten more. Would any of us be standing here now?"
I shake my head. Silas is making sense.
Silas leans forward. "So what's the deal with Lilith? Ansel can't stop talking about her. We both think she balances you out—all that sunshine to your storm clouds.
Something catches in my throat. "It's over," I manage. "I stormed into her shop like a complete jackass. Now she’s in Big Sur and I doubt she’ll ever want to see me again.” The admission costs me.
"I'm starting to see how this thing with Dad—this anger I can't let go of—it's like poison.
Everything good I touch turns toxic. Lilith was... " I can't finish.
Silas gives me a long look. "Then fix it, Roman."
“I wish I could. But I don’t know where to start.”