Page 13 of King of Ruin

“It’s fine, Mom.” I say, putting the top on the humidifier. “It’s just my ride.”

She nods, her eyes instantly welling with tears. “I love you, Zeky. Please come home to me in one piece.”

I hate when she cries. She does it every Wednesday. It’s not her fault I have to go with him, and there is nothing she could do to stop it. She knows this as much as I do, yet she still allows herself to carry the guilt. Something else I hope to take away from her one day.

Leaning over the couch, I kiss her temple. “Love you.”

Ignoring the second knock on the door, I hook up the humidifier and grab my backpack. Inside, I’ve got a change of clothes and a first aid kit because, without it, my mom would freak out when I came home.

By the time I reach the door, the bald man is the same shade as Fiona’s favorite crayon–Jazzberry Jam. When I shut the door and go to pass him, heading for the dark limo, he guffaws. “You damn sure get that from your father.”

“I am nothing like him,” I hiss, anger instantly swelling in my chest.

He chuckles, following behind and watching in amusement as I yank open the car door. “You say that, kid, but you two are a spitting image inside.”

Comparing me to a man who is vile, disgusting, disturbed, and all the itchy synonyms in between has a fury I’ve never known sweeping through me. He’s dedicated his life to hurting women while all I do is protect the ones at home. Just because I’m being forced here against my will to endure his training, doesn’t mean I’m anything like him.

Or ever will be.

I move before I allow myself to think, swinging my backpack around and knocking the bald guy in the face hard. He yelps like our neighbor’s chihuahua and slaps a hand over his face while grabbing a handful of my shirt in the other.

“Youlittle shit.”

“I am not my father,” I spit, jerking against his hold. “And we are almost the same height. Let me go.Now.”

He does as told, shoving me back so forcefully I fall into the limo. “I don’t get paid enough to fucking babysit bastards.”

After slamming the door closed, he gets into the front seat with the driver.“Fucking Leanbh. Déan deifir agus scaoil leis ionas gur féidir linn an cailín a thabhairt di.”

I smirk to myself. Phineas has been making me learn the language and even though I don’t know a lot yet, I catch on to him calling me a fucking baby.

It’s nice knowing I can make him mad and there isn’t much he can do.

The single pro in this whole messed-up thing is that only dear old dad can lay a hand on me. But I’m sure that courtesy may wear out eventually, too.

Either way, the bald guy needed to know–I may be the son of a monster, but I’m not one.

* * *

When we pull up to the mansion, its windows are all alight with life. Like rats in a sewer, the Murphy soldiers do most of their work at night. I don’t know much beyond what I catch in the brief walk from the limo through the foyer and to the back room, but I get the gist.

They make money in strip clubs, drugs, guns, and women. Lots of women. From my understanding, they are kept in warehouses for a while before being shipped off. Something about the other mafia family in the state making it harder for them to ship quickly. It’s gross to think about another group of people like my father running the other side.

I wonder if they treat their kids to this same type of upbringing. If they have a son who they hit until tears can no longer form from the swollen ducts. Or a daughter they waterboard until she’s begging for death to take her.

My stomach rolls at the thought. Thank God Fiona isn’t his daughter. I mean, her dad was killed the moment Phineas found out she wasn’t his, but he’s left her alone. And for that shred of a miracle, I’m grateful.

Inside, the foyer is pretty empty except for two guards standing near the entrance. Guns are slung over their shoulders as they both stare into a phone one is holding. Small moans and slaps of skin seep from the speakers as both men salivate over the video. They don’t even notice us passing through.

When we get to my father’s office, he’s pulling up his trousers while a dark harried woman stands from her knees, wiping the tears and makeup streaks from her cheeks. Her name is Juliet. His wife. The woman who couldn’t have children, resulting in Phineas’ need to find women who could give him one.

Though she still has to take his abuse, I know she’s grateful not to have to watch her own child go through it. Maybe that’s why she never looks at me. Because although I’m not her’s, I’m a child nonetheless, and she can’t stomach what he does to me.

“What happened to your face, Sam?” Phineas asks the man next to me, dismissing his wife with the wave of his hand.

She scurries out, her head down the entire way.

“Your little shit of a kid here hit me with his bag. Fucking zipper or something cut my damn face.”

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