Page 62 of Taming a Ruthless Heart

“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.

25

Alexia

Dave doesn’t answer when I ask him to stay and talk.He stalks out of the sunroom, leaving a void that echoes louder than the roar of his Maserati.As the sound fades, so does the fragile hope that our reunion might have mended more than it broke, or the illusion that our story could have a happy ending.

“I’ve just lost the only man I’ve ever loved,” I mutter to the empty room.And this time, I know it’s forever.

There’s nothing I can say or do to revert this situation, not when telling Dave the truth is what caused him to despise me.

The soft light of the setting sun spilling across the sunroom does nothing to appease my spiraling thoughts.Dragging my feet, I move past the wicker chairs and loveseat, ignoring their cozy charm.Their plump cushions in pastel colors were so inviting hours ago.Now, they just mock the chaos raging inside me.

I get to the wide French doors and press my palms against the glass panes.The cool glass beneath my palms does nothing to anchor me; instead, it mirrors the chill settling in my chest.I stare out at the tangle of greenery that’s getting darker by the minute.The faint rustle of the trees and the lulling crash of waves don’t calm my frayed nerves as they usually do.

I skim the reflection of my face in the glass.The eyes look hollow, as if they’ve been emptied of all light.But they are mine, holding only the residue of everything I’ve lost.Rose is all I’ve got now.

Rose.My daughter’s name brings a fresh batch of suppressed tears.They prickle the back of my eyes as I swallow hard.

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