Page 61 of Taming a Ruthless Heart

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.

Time 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.

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