Page 18 of The Club

“Fuckin’ faggot,” he slurs.

Rocco stomps forward. “The fuck you say?”

“He’s a faggot, Rocco. You gonna be his bitch? You gonna—”

Rocco slams his fist into Vince’s face. The clamps hold the chair in place as Vince’s head snaps to the side. Rocco hits him again and again until his chest is heaving and his fists are bloody. Vince is out, maybe already dead.

Rocco steps back. “Shit. Sorry, boss. I should’ve let you do it.”

“Never mind.”

I raise my gun and put a bullet in Vince’s head.

Rocco meets my eyes. I look for a question in his, trying to figure out if he’s hoping I’ll deny it. I don’t see that question there. I don’t see disgust either.

Rocco is a little older than I am, maybe thirty-five. He was already working for my father on the street crews when my father sent me to the Island. I don’t know if he knows what happened there, but everyone who’s been with my family as longas Rocco has knows a little bit. My father never hid how much I disgusted him.

“Dominic.”

It’s the way Rocco says my name, quietly, like we have something to talk about, that has me looking away. “I’m heading back to the city.”

“Tonight?” He’s incredulous.

“Yeah.” I’m sure as hell not staying here in my father’s house.

Rocco will have to. He’s got cleanup to do. But he’ll have a comfortable bed when he’s done.

I tell him, “Take the day and tomorrow night off when you’re done. You can stay here if you want, use the sauna or whatever. There should be food in the pantry and freezer.”

“You could stay too. You need some sleep.”

I won’t get any in this goddamn house.

“I have to go,” I tell him, starting to get pissed off. I don’t know why he’s pushing back, and I don’t like it. I just want out of this house. I can barely breathe here.

I leave the cell, trekking along the narrow hallway and passing through the well-hidden entrance into the cellar. When the police were here two months ago to investigate the attack and my father’s death, I was sweating bullets. The lead investigator was on our payroll, but shit can go downhill fast with dozens of people tromping around.

There were some dicey moments, but everything got sorted. The police never found the hidden door. The bodies got hauled away, the blood scrubbed from the floors, the windows replaced.

I walk through the house to the kitchen, where everything looks like it always did. Nothing’s changed since the day my mother left or since the day my father brought me back here from the Island.

As I pass the dining room, my skin tries to crawl off my body. Even though I don’t actively think about how I would have tosit in there with him every fucking night, the physical reaction happens all the same.

In the huge kitchen, I wash my bloody hands. My knuckles are split and swollen. I’ll deal with them later.

I don’t know what makes me walk out to the walled-in patio and pool area. It’s not the fastest route to my car. But I haven’t been back here since my father’s death and something draws me to the spot where he died.

It was a shitstorm that night. It wasn’t just Rafael and Dante coming after my father. A mobster that he’d screwed over was actually the main aggressor, with Dante and Rafael slipping in behind to rescue Dante’s boyfriend.

I didn’t blame them for going after my father while they were here. In fact, I’m glad they did. I’m glad he’s dead.

I don’t know why I could never do it myself. It wasn’t loyalty that stayed my hand. It was him. He froze me somehow.

He was the only person who could do that to me. Halt every thought, every action.

I stare at the spot where my father lay after Dante put the final bullet in his head. That night, I spent a long time staring down at him, as frozen as ever. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t relieved. I just felt numb.

And now? I don’t know. I’m starting to shake, but I don’t know why.

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