Page 14 of Bitter Prince
Two days later, a few minutes before seven, we sat in the dining room of Father’s home. It was inevitable that we’d see him on this trip—we had much to discuss.
Neither my brother nor I felt like chatting, but we knew avoiding him any longer would stir trouble. So, here we were.
I studied my mother’s face for any sign of bruising. There were none. There were benefits to growing up and becoming physically bigger and stronger than your father. I had made it clear long ago that if he laid a finger on her, I’d stop helping with the Leone business. Dante did the same. We might not always be here to restrain him, but we finally had something to hold over his head, and neither one of us would hesitate to use it.
Father sat at the head of the table, his eyes locked on my mother. I fucking hated that she stayed with him. He had multiple mistresses on the side—which was something she preferred—but I couldn’t understand why she never left him.
She didn’t love him.
She might have fooled us when we were children, but she couldn’t do it anymore. He had to be holding something over her head, and I intended to find out what it was. Then, I’d set her free so she could live the rest of her days in peace.
“How was the meeting with Romero?” he asked, his gaze still on my mother who stiffened slightly. I hadn’t told her that Romero made a deal with the Yakuza to have me killed. It seemed a moot point, seeing as we’d blackmailed him into cooperation.
A maid rushed in carrying plates of food—no doubt something to appease Father’s tastes—and set them down in front of us.
“It was fine,” Dante answered. “What is this shit?” he asked, eyeing the food on our plates.
“A healthy dinner.”
It was curious that he didn’t bring up the Yakuza business first. I would have thought he’d be worried about his drug routes now that my cousin had taken over. “He’ll use the Leone ports for drug shipments in the spring and summer months and pay us a fee.”
My mother’s attention was on the plate full of food in front of her, no doubt wondering how she was going to stomach it. Black pudding, bread, and a well-done steak. It was definitely a subtle “fuck you.” And yet, she said nothing as she pushed it around on her plate.
“Healthy dinner? What the actual fuck?” Dante muttered, staring at the plate that mirrored our mother’s. “Did you get a new chef who has no taste buds?”
“It’s the same cook,” Mamma answered flatly.
I opened my mouth to tell Father that he might need to consider retiring him, but Dante was quicker. “He must want to give us all explosive diarrhea.”
“Consider it a cleanse,” I muttered. A muscle in Father’s cheek twitched, so I egged on. “No wonder people lose their shit when they eat this crap,” I added, the double meaning aimed at his temper.
He slammed a fist against the table, causing all the silverware to rattle. Neither Dante nor I flinched, used to his outbursts, but my mother startled. Even after all these years, she was on edge around him.
“You two done with the shit jokes?” he snarled. The old man hadn’t aged well. His alcohol consumption and diet had taken a toll on him. The cancer helped too. His hair was still dark—only because he colored it—but there was no cure for his receding hairline and jaundiced skin.
It didn’t matter that his physical state had weakened. He was still capable of abuse and betrayal. It was the reason I didn’t sleep under his roof anymore. The same was true for Dante.
In general, neither of us ever got a whole night’s sleep, no matter where we stayed. I used that time to go over surveillance and grow my empire. My insomnia started the day I saved a particular golden-haired girl. The same day Father took Dante and me to the dungeon for the first time and punished us. Since then, I’d slept with one eye open. He might be old and weak, but years of abuse at his hand had changed us in many ways.
There was nothing I’d like more than to dispose of my father without anyone finding out, including my brother. But unfortunately, that wasn’t in the cards. At least not at the moment.
“Did you see Romero’s daughters?” he asked. Mother’s eyes shot up from the plate for the first time since we sat down for dinner. Her gaze darted from me, to Dante, then to Father.
He regarded all three of us in a way I didn’t like one bit. Almost as if he knew something we didn’t.
“We didn’t see his daughters,” I lied.
“Why do you care?” Mother asked him.
It was my question exactly. Father never cared about anyone, especially not someone else’s children.
He shrugged, smugness clear on his face. “I don’t. I just think it’s amusing how Romero was so desperate for sons and got punished with daughters.” I stared at him with indifference while my chest burned with anger and hate. “I hear his youngest, Reina, is quite the troublemaker.”
I gave him a tight smile, hating the way he spoke her name. I didn’t like him even knowing Reina Romero existed, never mind speaking of her.
“How so?” Dante asked curiously, shoving his black pudding around on the plate with a repulsed sneer.
“Rumor has it that she’s always fighting her sister’s battles.”
