Page 73 of Wild Angel

Something withers inside me when my father smacks his lips at me, his watering eyes on the tiny bottle between my fingers.

But I feed him anyway because he needs the strength. Fuck, I’ll stand here all day, scooping spoon after spoon of this mush between his quivering lips if that’s what it’ll take to get him back on his feet.

Fuck. Maybe that’s exactly what Ishouldhave been—

“You’re looking chipper, Uncle,” Vito calls out. “And Savage, if the cartel life doesn’t work out for you, at least you’ll always have something to fall back on. I hear male nurses get serious ass.”

I don’t even bother looking at him. My father seems ravenous—half the bottle is already gone.

Guilt slides in and makes a fucking nest in my guts.

Why wasn’t I here more? I’ve visited him twice a day every day since the shooting, but have I stayed more than five minutes? I’m always arguing with the nurse, trying to call the Doc, and then I leave—irritated, frustrated.

“Bro, enough with that.” Vito comes to my side, takes the jar out of my hand. “I’ll do this, you go get changed.”

I sneer at him. “Changed?”

He gives my outfit a condescending scan. “That’s what you plan to wear?” He snorts. “Bro, come on. The Domingos have a standard to uphold.”

I growl at him, look back at my father. But Vito wrenches the spoon out of my hand and feeds Bryan another serving of apple and beef mush.

My jaw clenches, but then I hear someone softly clearing his throat, and turn to see Ramon Valencia standing a yard away.

“He’s right, Caesar. This—” The man gestures at my outfit. “—isn’t appropriate.”

My chest is so tight, I couldn’t have retorted if I wanted to. As I storm away, Vito calls out, “Behind the door in the bathroom. And you’re welcome.”

I shake my head at them, but I don’t say anything. Doing anything—even changing my goddamn clothes—is better than standing around waiting.

Where the fuck is Nyx?

I reach for my phone, but I’m not even wearing my jacket. It’s still hanging over the chair in my bedroom. I’ll ask Vito to contact Sam when I’m out of here.

As I push open the bathroom door, my eyes land on the box positioned on the gold-veined marble counter.

I force a swallow as the reality of what I’m about to do comes crashing down on me.

Fuck.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Nyx

Istare at the dress, then back up at the goon who’s holding it out for me. “I’m sorry, what did you just say to me?”

Why is Matias glaring at me when I’m being so fucking polite?

“Put on the fucking dress.”

His friend, some bozo called Samuel, clears his throat. “Savage won’t like you talking to his lady like that.”

“Lady?” Matias’s eyes narrow. “That’s taking serious liberties with the meaning of the word.”

I punch him right in the fucking kidneys for that, and he bends over with a delightful groan. Then I snatch the garment bag from his hand and whirl around, stalking into Savage’s room and slamming the door behind me.

I stand there for a second, breathing through my nose. Something’s not right, and it’s not just the dress I have in my hands. I scan the room, but it’s like one of those “spot the difference” pictures—and I never was any good with those.

But a second later I’m furious again.

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