Page 102 of Wicked Rivals

The room wasn't as trashed. The bedside table had been turned over and a door broken.

Anotherthunk. This time, I pinpointed the origin.

It came from inside the wardrobe.

Someone banged around in there, trying to get out.

With my pulse racing, I signaled for Tony to step back. He trained his weapon on the wardrobe as I moved toward the giant piece of furniture. Tony remained focused with his assault rifle as I flung aside a piece of the bathroom door and threw open the wardrobe’s double doors.

We didn’t see anything but clothing.

I took a cautious step back to get a better angle.

Inside a split second, my son tumbled out onto the floor.

Enzo’s arms and legs flailed as I bent to pick him up. He pushed me away and kicked me. His face had flushed with a deep crimson, and his cheeks stained with tears.

Seeing him that way did something painful to me. Something I neither recognized nor understood.

Both heat and cold washed through me at once, like there was too much air, but I couldn’t take in any of it. My blood was on fire, my chest housing some frozen foreign mass, and I wanted to tear the fucking world to pieces.

For the first time in my life, I didn’t know what to do.

My son.

Someone had done this to my son. Someone had made him hurt this badly, and I couldn’t fix it. I was his father. It was my job to fix it, to protect him, to keep him safe and happy.

A father for less than twenty-four hours, and already I had failed my son.

“This is your fault!” Enzo screamed.

His hands balled into tight little fists as he banged them against me. I didn't try to stop him.

I took every hit he had to give until he started hurting himself more than he hurt me. Then I grabbed his arms, drew him in, and held him close to my body.

“Breathe,” I whispered in his ear, repeating it over and over.

My mother’s words, her whispers.

The soft words she had used to soothe me as a child after a fight with my brother or my father or the bully at school.

Only my mother’s voice had helped me rein in my emotions when I became so full of anger and pain. She had taught me the control my father always lacked.

Now it was my turn to help my boy.

His furious shouts melted into helpless sobs.

“Breathe,” I said. “Just breathe, son.”

Slowly, I inhaled and exhaled with him, for him, until the rise and fall of his chest matched the rhythm of mine. When he calmed down enough, I pulled him back so I could see his face.

“Where is she, Enzo?”

“He took her. He took her, and it's all my fault,” he screamed.

“No, this is notyour fault. Do you hear me? It’s mine.”

I brushed his curly locks away from his swollen eyes.

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