Page 167 of Vicious Addictions

And with that, she turns around and leaves—for good this time.

With my back pressed onto the tree trunk we just made love on, I watch her silhouette leave until it disappears into the fast-approaching night. As soon as my love disappears from my sight, my gut-wrenching agony is replaced with blinding rage.

Vincent.

Whereas before my feet felt like lead, heavy with reluctance to return to the mansion, now they all but fly, carrying me there.

Fury continues to color my vision as I burst into the mansion, searching for my father. I growl when I see that his guests have long gone home, saving him embarrassment from the scene I’m about to make. I head toward his study with ungodly speed, where he’s probably giving himself a pat on the back for his performance earlier today. When I swing the door open and see my mother slap him across the cheek, I realize I’ll have to wait in line if I want to give him a piece of my mind.

“How could you?!” she accuses, her green eyes piercing his black soul. “How could you do that to Marcello? Who are you right now? What kind of man would do that to his own son?”

“Tesoro—”

“Save me yourtesoros, Vincent! I want an explanation, not a declaration of love!”

I watch my father’s shoulders slump as he leans back on his desk for support, my mother’s wrath apparently too much for him to take.

There is a fine line where his lips should be as my mother continues to throw daggers at him with one scathing look.

“You have no idea what ruin you caused me today. I felt like I was a helpless child again, watching Pietro kill that man on his induction day. However, instead of having Gio and Dom to comfort me, I had to comfort two scared little boys after they witnessed their brother kill a man.”

“You shouldn’t have been there in the first place. And neither should have the twins,” he replies evenly.

My mother raises her hand again, ready to swing another hard slap on my father’s face.

“Go ahead,” he says as he offers his cheek, my mother stopping her hand mid-air. “Hit me,tesoro. For I would rather feel the sharp pain of your hand than suffer another moment of seeing the hurt in your eyes.” He then swiftly leans off the desk and grabs her wrist, begging her to hit him again. “Do it, wife! By God, do it as many times as you need until all that rage and sadness bubbling inside you is extinguished.”

Instead of rage and fury, he’s met with my mother’s low sobs, which is all it takes to break a hard man like my father.

He pulls my mother into a fierce embrace, holding her as she trembles against him, and says, “It wasn’t him,tesoro.The man you and the twins saw today was not our Marcello. I promise you.”

My mother lifts her head off his shoulders, perplexed by her husband’s vague and confusing explanation of today’s events.

“I don’t understand,” she whispers, searching my father’s eyes for the true meaning behind his remark.

“I know you don’t, sweetheart. I know. But all I ask is for you to trust me. Trust me that our boy,” he says, pausing to press his hand on her heart. “Yourboy is still whole. Marcello will only have a faint recollection of what transpired today. I swear to you. Our son will remain the shy, sweet boy that you love so much. You can still keep that part of him safe in your loving embrace. Let the Outfit have the monster,tesoro.Let it sink its teeth on whatever it can, and this way, our boy will remain safe… will remain ours.”

Like me, my mother is still deciphering my father’s cryptic message when she sees me standing under the door’s threshold.

“Oh, honey. We didn’t see you standing there,” she says, quickly wiping the tears away from her eyes and stepping away from my father. Which apparently was the last thing he wanted if the tic of his jaw is any indicator.

“Jude, if you don’t mind, I need to finish talking to your mother before I deal with whatever new grievance you have with me.”

“You think you know me so well, don’t you?” I sneer, walking into his study instead of leaving like he wanted.

“I know enough. I know that when you get that look in your eye, no amount of logic or reasoning will make a dent in your fury.” My father groans, leaning against his desk once more, knowing that his conversation with my mother will have to wait. “So come out with it. How did I manage to get on your bad side today, son?”

“I just want to know if it’s true,” I say, stepping closer to him.

“Can you be more specific?”

“Was it ever your plan to name me your successor, or was the role always for Marcello?” This shuts him up. “Well, Father? Are you not going to dignify my question with an answer? Is that how low you think of me?”

“Basta!” he shouts, aggrieved by the contempt in my voice. “If it’s the truth that you seek, son, then by God, I’m going to give it to you,” he threatens before marching toward me to close the gap between us. “It was never my intention to inductanyof my children into thefamiglia.Your mother and I had already given it enough as it was. We didn’t want to have our children give it, too. Need I remind you that it was you who opened that door? It was you who basically blackmailed his own father just to get his way. And to my shame, I conceded to your emotional extortion, knowing full well that, in doing so, I was sealing the fate of my other children into wanting to follow their brother’s footsteps. I did that because I loved you and genuinely believed you could be a good leader to the syndicate once I stepped down.” He then looks at my mother as he says the next words, “But the son that left for London to prove his point was not the son that returned.”

My jaw clenches, and my hands fist at the truth of his words.

“I didn’t understand how you could spend most of your teenage years giving your mother and me hell, demanding your birthright, and when I finally conceded and gave it to you, that same fire was no longer in sight. It confused me, son. And it also worried your mother. Many nights, we lie in bed just talking about how best to help you, Jude. Your mother was adamant that you were depressed, and for a time, I actually agreed with her, thinking maybe the job was just too much for your good heart to handle. Your mother and I even talked about asking you to see a therapist. A therapist, Jude! Something that is completely forbidden in the Outfit as we run the real risk of telling our family’s secrets to a Fed instead of a qualified practitioner. I wasthatconcerned for you, son.”

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