Page 189 of His Pretty Little Duet

"Calm, son." My father drops to his haunches, blood spilling from his nose. Compliments of me, I presume. "That'll do." He grips my shoulder as I regain my senses, hearing the calamity of my men hit me square in the forehead. Hearing Aurora shouting orders. The cars leaving.

The parking lot emptying.

My father is still gripping my shoulder…And I'm certain he has never held me for such a time. And he is staring at me again with that uncomfortable intent. With regret. Andempathy.

I frown at him. What does that look mean to me? It reminds me of an eighteen-year-old boy after his first kill, after murdering a young girl. Of being rejected such empathy. It retells a moment of need, of wanting such understanding.

"Don't feel."

"You're a leader."

"A leader is always alone."

Perhaps he never said that.It was teachings from theCosa Nostra.It was my mother… And it was my old Don. It wasJimmy Storm.And I made his words synonymous with my father's, but they never were… were they?

Jimmy encouraged the segregation.

And I, I hid in it.

Christ.

I squeeze my eyes shut to the sensation of his fist gripping my shoulder. I've lost my mind. My absolute control, my logic, rationalities, utterly waring with my emotions. "Max," I hiss through my teeth.

"He will keep her safe, son."

Seeing only red in my mind, I open my eyes to find Bronson has moved in beside my father, a look of both volatility and pride firing within his glowing green gaze.

"Well, well," he almost sings. "There you are, my beautiful brother. And what a sight for sore eyes you are."

"We have to find them," I say darkly.

"We don't have time to chase them around the city, brother. So get up. Wipe your pretty suit off. And let's go get our brothers… andourgirl at the campsite."

Clay

I fist the wheel.We go ahead with the plan. Bronson is with Carter somewhere in the thick, dense bush. Aurora waits at home with Luca and the men, ready to initiate a recovery operation should we not come back tonight.

And I drive alone.

Thick grey smoke rolls along the bonnet, icing the dark metallic sheets in white and brown soot as I drive through the debris of the bushfire.

To her.

And I'm feeling.

So fucking much.

It’s dangerous.

Distracting.

Blackened trees border the road. The national park fire is a 360-degree glow of orange. The heat is immense, contracting the metal of my Chrysler. The fibres shrinking within this woodland furnace.

I head further into its depths, towards more scorching intensity. Ahead, I can only make out mere metres. Cracks rattle my bones as branches snap in half in the vast distance.

This is red, hot, earthly hell.

I roll down a dirt track, steering towards the meeting site. My mind drifts to the text message I received thirty minutes ago as I geared up. It read:

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