Page 131 of Hexed
He doesn’t reply, just keeps his eyes steady on the television, the crystal glass in his hand still swirling. The fireplace heats the side of my body when I walk by it, the crackling sendingsmall sparks off the brick walls of the hearth, but there’s an odd tension in the air that keeps my skin chilled. I move around the mahogany coffee table and sit on the other side of the couch, sighing when I lean back to take in what he’s watching.
It’s a tape of Peppino from after high school graduation, in the driveway of our old house, loading up the last of his suitcases on his way to Yale. Ma is standing off to the side, and the sight of her makes my throat swell. Her arms are wrapped around her small frame while she tries to hold back her tears, but she isn’t successful. She never was good at hiding her emotions, especially when it came to us.
I remember this day.
“Pops,” I try again.
Finally, I get his attention, his hazy, bloodshot gaze swinging from the screen over to me. There’s a heavy feeling in the air, a melancholy look covering his face, and I know without having to ask what’s going through his head. Right now, Pops is an open book while he mourns his murdered child, the one who was supposed to raise us to new heights in a way I never could.
I blow out a heavy breath, run a hand through my hair, and look over at him. “How long have you been in here watching these?”
He grunts but doesn’t respond. Instead, he reaches beside him, places his drink down, and picks up an empty glass and his crystal decanter. He pours before passing it to me without a word.
And that’s how we spend the next few minutes, sitting in silence, swirling our drinks, me pretending the burn in my chest is from the whiskey and not from the sound and sights of my dead family on the screen.
Or the woman I met and left behind in South Carolina.
Just as I’ve gotten used to the silence, the alcohol pumping through my veins and dulling the sharp edges, Pops speaks.
He takes a sip and then swallows. “You’re back.”
I nod and take another drink, suddenly grateful for the balm to this talk.
He glances around. “And did you bring your pretty fiancée?”
I lick my lips and place my glass down on the table, my heart pounding from the conversation I’m about to have. “No.”
Now he looks at me fully. “So explain to me why you’re here.”
“That’s a long story.”
His bushy brow, tinged with gray, rises in question. “That’s funny. Trent Kingston was able to tell it in mere minutes.”
My father’s jaw clenches, a brief flash of mistrust on his face. It’s the same look he’s been getting increasingly over the past five years, since he murdered half the commission and demanded subservience from the rest.
Corruption. Greed. Power.
I tried to warn Peppino that Pops was losing his mind, but he never listened, and he ended up clipped.
I’m not out here about to make the same mistakes that he made.
“Trent’s version of events is skewed,” I say.
“Ah, again, similar to what he said. Coincidence, no?”
I shake my head. “I don’t believe in coincidence.”
He smirks then. “Bene.” He takes another sip of his drink before setting it down. “So you got caught dipping your dick in the wrongputtanaand then ran away instead of being a man. AMarino.”
I strongly disagree. “You shouldn’t trust anything Trent Kingston says. He’s a fucking snake, and so is his daughter. You believe him, and you’re giving him control he doesn’t deserve. Control overme.”
“You don’t know what controlis,figlio mio.” He chuckles in an empty, menacing way that sends a chill up my spine. “Control is quiet. It’s masterful. It doesn’t need to make a show or takeup space because itisthe space, and it allows everyone to exist within it. If you think Trent fucking Kingston can take control from you, then you never had it to begin with.”
I swallow and lick my lips one more time, trying to figure out what exactly it is he wants me to do.
“The wedding is off,” he finishes calmly. “Congratulations.”
He looks at me with disappointment shining in his gaze, but all I can feel is relief.
