Page 54 of Soulless Saint

“You too,” Ma snapped at Hardin behind me. “Your Dad’s already in there, and he seems hellbent on breaking the good china.”

He grunted, following me back into the heart of the house, the pair of us following the sound of clattering porcelain the whole way.

Ma wasn’t wrong. Dad was there, elbow deep in soapy water at the farmhouse style sink, scrubbing the dinner plates like they owed him money.

Side note: you did not want to owe my dad money.

He muttered to himself as he worked, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. The formidable Damien St. Vincent reduced to the role of house husband for the next thirty minutes while we cleaned Ma’s kitchen spotless.

“Thought you’d make a break for it, eh, boys?” Dad joked without any mirth as Ma strolled through the kitchen toward the sitting room where she’d watch her soaps until everything was to her satisfaction.

Or maybe not. Ma continued through the sitting room and went straight for the side door to the garage.

…and the gun safe Dad had installed below where he parked his truck. She wasn’t messing around.

Ma stopped leading the gang with Dad before we were properly inducted. I’d never seen her operate in that capacity. No more than smelling lead and copper on her clothes when she came in late to kiss us goodnight.

“Tried,” I said with a shrug, elbowing Dad out of the way to take over washing before he actually did bust up Ma’s china and she had all our asses. “Failed.”

“’the hell you doing?”

“You’re going to break shit. Go wipe down the stove or something.”

Hardin nicked the dish towel from Dad’s shoulder and started drying the dishes in the rack with a knot between his brows. I knew he was in Dad’s study with him while I helped Ma get the food ready and wondered what he’d learned.

Clearly, it wasn’t anything good.

…and the shit pile just kept fucking growing.

“I want you boys to stick together,” Dad said once he was done scrubbing the grease splatter from the top of the stove. “I said it before, but I’ll say it again now. You don’t go anywhere alone. You’re never unarmed. You got that? Not until we find these bastards and deal with them.”

“Daddy didn’t raise no fools,” I said, trying to lighten the mood, but Dad just stared at me deadpan. Totally unimpressed. As if I wasn’t the comedic genius I was.

Tough fucking crowd.

I coughed. “Right. Yeah, Dad. We’re not fuckin’ teenagers anymore. I mean, hell, Hardin’ll be twenty-four next month. That’s the age you were when you split off from Uncle Diesel and Uncle Ransom to run your own gang.”

Dad nodded to himself. “I know. I know.”

I didn’t mention to Dad that Hardin and I were decidedly not sticking together lately. When he wasn’t holed up in his room doing god knew what on his computers he was driving around the streets of Santa Clarita. The Row in particular. And I had a pretty good idea why. Or rather… who.

I stuck my dick in it so it’s mine.

My fucking childish brain knew no bounds.

I wasn’t any better than my big bro, though. Between making sure my baby was ready for the race this weekend and stalking Becca at the yoga studio… safe to say I was a little distracted. And also at times, entirely unarmed.

My brother’s gaze met mine, and an unspoken agreement passed between us. Dad was right. We needed to watch each other’s backs.

No more distractions. Not until this was handled.

“So, who’s the girl?” Dad asked, not so smoothly changing the subject as he leaned against the counter, letting me and Hardin finish the rest of the cleaning without him as he sipped his scotch.

Where the fuck was mine?

“What girl?” I asked, shaking soapy water from my hands as the sink drained. I fingered a glass from the cupboard and filled it with a fourth of scotch, hopping up onto the counter to get off my feet.

Dad lowered the scotch from his lips with a disbelieving smirk. “Whatever girl has Gillian DeLuca about ready to tear your face off.”

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