Page 33 of Spiteful Heart

Also, fucking sue me. I didn’t know how to chop wood. I didn’twantto know how. That was one skill I would die happy having never known. I wasn’t built for chopping wood or taking care of chickens.

I didn’t know how long we stood there, watching our father chop the log into smaller, more manageable pieces, but it felt like an eternity. And all the while, he kept his trap shut, like he had nothing to say to us. You’d think, with the way we were being treated right now, we were the children he’d had but never wanted. He’d never been the picture-perfect specimen of a loving father, but before, at least he looked at us in the eye without seething.

“Help me carry this inside,” he said, bending over to pick up a few pieces. Without waiting for us, he rounded the cabin, around the chicken coop, and went to the front door.

Neither Sylvester nor I hurried to pick up the wood. I looked at my brother, waiting for him to say something. “Well? Tell me we’re not helping him do his fucking chores—” Just by the expression on his face, I knew we were.

Oh, great.Chores here we come.

Swearing under my breath, I bent to pick up some wood. I stuffed my arms full, and Sylvester did the same. By the time we entered the cabin through the front door, we found our father kneeling by the fireplace in the small living room area, starting a fire. He’d rolled his sleeves up, showing off his toned forearms—I guess that hideous flannel pattern did hide his muscles. He hadn’t quite let himself go like I’d thought.

“Where do you want the wood?” Sylvester asked. The wood our father had brought in was already in the fireplace.

He pointed without looking at us. “There.” A small metal rack sat in the corner of the room, a few feet away from the fireplace. We unloaded our armfuls there, stacking them as best we could.

You’d think, after that, he’d talk to us—but nope. He didn’t. The only other thing he said was: “Take a seat.”

Sylvester and I exchanged the millionth what-the-fuck glance of the day as we did just that. There would be no arguing with our father. He was definitely in a mood, though that was him pretty much every damn day.

I couldn’t imagine why living out here wasn’t doing his disposition any favors. I mean, nature was supposed to cure everything, right?

Fucking nature. It was disgusting.

So we sat. We sat and waited. We sat and waited while our father did whatever the fuck he was doing. Every so often, he came to stoke the fire, jostling around the wood until he got a good flame going. Not once did he ever spare us a second glance, and as the day wore on, I started to wonder if he was ever going to stop and give us a few minutes. Just talk to us. We were his children, so it shouldn’t be that big of a deal.

Eventually, he called us over to a small table in the kitchen, and Sylvester and I got up and each took a seat. Our father set plates down before us, the aroma of what he’d cooked for close to the last hour filling the air.

Steak, by the look of it. If I had to guess, I’d say he got it from the butcher’s earlier.

We watched as he took up a chair, picked up his fork and his knife, and started cutting into it. He cut a small square, stabbing it with his fork and bringing it to his mouth. His dark eyes closed as he tasted it, a slow breath coming from him, like it was the best thing he’d ever had.

Swallowing, he opened his eyes to look at Sylvester and me. “Well?” he asked. “You’re shitty guests if you don’t eat the food I made for you.”

“We didn’t come here to have dinner with you,” Sylvester spoke, treading carefully.

Me? I think being perpetually pissed off all day had given me an appetite—that, or the steak just smelled great, because I didn’t hesitate. I dived right in, getting a taste of it for myself. And, yes, it was damned good. So good I groaned when the meat’s succulent juices exploded in my mouth.

Holy shit. This was amazing.

“Eat,” our father commanded, and Sylvester was forced to do just that. Maybe if we played nice, he’d finally fucking talk to us… and if not, at least we’d get a kickass steak out of it. Steak, beans, and even mashed potatoes.

Our father, the ex-crime lord, the ex-mob boss, now a chef. Look at how the tables had turned.

The table was quiet as everyone ate. Forks scraped against porcelain, knives sawing away at the slab of meat on our plates. No one tried to say anything else, all of our attention on eating. It was a damned good meal, I had to say. Our father had even given us each a glass of red wine to go with it. Wine wasn’t my favorite drink, but I sucked it down nonetheless.

It was only when all of our plates were empty, the food resting comfortably in our bellies—only when our father had given us each a top-off of wine that he leaned back in his chair, dark eyes on Sylvester and me, and spoke, “You didn’t come here to eat with me, so why did you come?”

“Your phone—”

“I put it down to forget about it,” he said. “Don’t really need a phone out here.”

That didn’t sit right with Sylvester, because he shot back, “What if we need you and we can’t reach you?” His hands were fists on the table, his mouth thinning into a frown as he stared daggers at our father.

“Then you’ll get in your car and drive here just like you did today,” our father stated. “Besides, you shouldn’t need me. You should know how to handle everything by now, son… or is everything different now that you’re the one in charge?”

“It ain’t just him,” I said. “Lola took over the DeLuca’s fortune. She’s living in their house right now.” Okay, maybe I was still a little pissed off at how long our father had refused to speak to us today, making us follow him around town, making me out to be an idiot because I couldn’t chop some fucking wood.

He practically growled out the words, “Ah, yes. The serial killer who murdered your brother. The one you two were so intent on fucking. I assume, then, you’re still with her?” When neither my brother nor I answered, he grunted out a bitter sound. “I figured as much. Never thought I’d raise my sons to be the kind of men who’d worship someone who’d put one of their blood in the ground, but I suppose everyone’s wrong at least once in their life.”

---