Page 31 of Death's Deal

Chapter 17

Antonia

I didn’t want to tell him.

Ever.

I was hoping Quinny would never have the opportunity to know about Tristan after all this time. I tried many times while he was in jail to tell him. I tried many times to see him to explain it, but he wouldn’t see me. If he hadn’t seen him in the house, the phone ping wouldn’t have mattered. I had essentially lied to him for all this time, or at least that’s what he believes.

Tristan is what caused us to be ripped apart. Why our lives were destroyed, and the only reason why I sided with my family and not with him during the trial. It’s another reason why Quinny took the fall for my father’s and my brother’s dealings. Why I lied on the stand, why he went to jail, and why his life’s trajectory was irrevocably torn asunder.

I broke us.

I broke him.

He growls out in his super annoyed tone, a tone I know all too well, “I told you. No more lies, Toni. Tell me the truth. Who is his father?”

He still thinks I’m lying? He thinks I’m still protecting Tristan’s father, as if he’s some deadbeat who needs protecting from the likes of a man like Quinny.

“I’m not lying.” Reaching for the open bottle of tequila, I grasp the bottle by the neck. Sloshing a few droplets across the countertop before it presses against my lips, I release it with a pop after slogging three full glugs down. I answered him through the burn, “This is the first time I’ve had the courage to give you the truth.”

Through gritted teeth, he barks, “Then or now?”

I’m still cornered by a very annoyed man, still trapped on the counter with Quinny between my legs and his heated, stressful, and betrayed gaze holding me in place. How ever I answer that question, as loaded as it is, I will find pain at the end of the rainbow. There is no pot of gold awaiting me and no gold star to be awarded either.

I decide it’s best not to answer.

I stay silent.

His molten gaze is one I hated to be on the other side of all those years ago. Back then, I knew when he was super pissed off, he would become surprisingly calm, tempered almost, and his voice would make you nervous at how controlled and relaxed he would seem.

Eventually, he asks, “Tristan is my son?”

“Yes.”

Flaring his nostrils, he backs away from me, scoring his fingers along his scalp, with fury lacing his words. “He’s my son? You’re telling me you hid the truth from me for twenty-four years?”

Now I’m annoyed. Setting the booze on the counter, stepping down, straightening my shirt and standing my ground, I face off against him. I know he won’t hurt me. He’s not that kind of man.

“Don’t sound like I never tried to talk to you! I tried so many times to speak to you, but you wouldn’t see me while you were in jail. I came to see you, to explain why I did what I did. I came to the club when you returned home, and every year you had one of your men send me away.

“You never noticed it was always around the same time of year, Quinny? Every time, I came the week before Tristan’s birthday in the hopes that we could talk. That you would speak to me. That you could be involved in his life. That you could be in his world as someone who wanted to know him. Even when my father had implicitly commanded I could not tell you, I still snuck away to try... to try to tell you. But, every time...” Pausing, trying to calm my own temper, I think before continuing on. I know when I’m super pissed off, I shake, cry, and lose my cool. I don’t want to do that. It will ruin the situation. When I feel I’m composed, I continue, “You slammed the door in my face and told me to fuck off. So, I stopped coming near you. I quit trying to involve you.”

Turning from me, wandering to the fridge to pull out a bottle of water, he sucks down half of it. “You should have tried harder.”

Rolling my eyes, pursing my lips, and scrunching up my nose annoyed, I can’t contain myself anymore. I’m now shaking. “You. Wouldn’t. See. Me! What did you want me to do? Would it have taken me stripping nude in your club? Or maybe I needed to get involved in your father’s drug running? What would it have taken for you to see me?”

Flatly, with all fire and tone out of his voice, he states, “He’s not my father.”

“That was my line every time Tristan asked who his dad was. Not him I’d say, pointing to someone Tristan thought he looked like.”

Punching the wall beside him, his fist soars through the material straight through to the other side. He pulls back and the dust settles across the counter beside us. Settling his own internal demon, calming down now that his hand has caused the intended damage he needed it to, he says, “He’s my son, Toni. You should’ve tried harder.”

I deflate, with all of the fire escaping me. “Let’s agree there are many things we wish had been done differently.”

Seeing the blood dripping off of his knuckles, I reached for the nearby dish towel. “Let me see your hand,” I say, pointing to the scraped and bleeding skin.

“I don’t care about it, Toni.”

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