Page 20 of Massacre
I smiled and nodded.
Bane looked at Dante, slowly shaking his head. “I owe you an apology, Prospect.”
“Not a prospect...” Dante said, then smiled wickedly and added, “Dad.”
Bane groaned. “Jesus, that fucking sounds weird.”
“How the hell do you think we feel?” My brother grinned, winking at me.
“Try being the one stuck in the middle of this circus,” I shot back, my voice lighter than it had been in months. It was true—somehow, in the midst of all the wreckage, this odd little family had started to form, all rough edges and unfinished conversations.
Dante plopped onto the edge of the bed, his familiar weight making the mattress dip. “At least now I don’t have to pretend that Bane is just my grumpy club brother.”
Bane rolled his eyes but there was an unfamiliar softness in his expression. “Yeah, well. I’m still learning the ropes, kid.” He glanced at me, something unspoken passing between us—a promise, maybe, or just shared relief that the world hadn’t fallen apart after all.
For a moment, the air hummed with something like peace. Fragile, yes, but real. The way sunlight slips through storm clouds and you remember how to breathe. I reached out, my hand finding Bane’s, and squeezed. Small gestures, but they felt like seeds planted in good earth.
Dante smirked, nudging my foot with his. “So, since we’re all being so civil to one another, our mother is outside and would like to come in.”
And just like that, what little happiness I felt shattered. “No. I don’t want to see her.”
Dante’s face fell. “She feels like shit, Sis. Said she wouldn’t force her way in, but she’s not leaving either.” He ran a palm over his jaw, suddenly all nerves. “Just let her explain.”
“No.” I vehemently shook my head. “She was there. She knew who I was and still sent me away. I don’t care what she has to say.”
“I’m sure she had her reasons.”
“I don’t care. Whatever they are means nothing. You don’t abandon family.”
Dante was about to add something when Bane spoke first. “Leave your sister alone, Dante. The decision is hers. When she’s ready, she will listen.” Then, as if a thought occurred to him, he stood and frowned, before walking toward the door and adding, “But first, she needs to explain this shit to me.”
With that, Bane left the room, leaving me alone with my brother, who grinned. “Ooh... I think Mommy and Daddy are about to fight.”
Chapter Seven
Massacre
The taste of stale beer and old regret stuck to the back of my throat. I watched the brothers from my corner perch, noting the way conversations flickered and died when I looked their way. Someone’s phone trilled and was swiftly silenced. A couple of the club prospects roughhoused near the dartboard, glances darting nervously over to King, who brooded at a table alone, his fingers drumming a private rhythm on the battered wood as he glared at me.
The second we got back to the clubhouse, Bane rushed upstairs and hadn’t returned, not yet. The uneasy truce between us felt thinner than usual, stretched almost to breaking. My thoughts looped back to the Queen’s Diamond, to the sharp, ugly syllables that had found their mark—words meant to wound and isolate.
“All you will ever be is a reminder of her pain,” the irate fucker said before he used my face as a punching bag, and as much as I hated him for saying it, I knew he was right.
My past was scary enough, and the more I thought about it, I knew there was no fucking way I could fully bring her into my world and keep her nightmares away.
I shifted my gaze to the scarred floorboards as I traced the web of cracks with my boot, trying to steady the riot inside my chest. The air was thick with tension and sweat, the low thrum of muffled voices punctuated now and then by the clack of billiard balls from the next room. Every sound felt amplified, every face a mirror of suspicion or memory best left buried.
A sharp burst of laughter cut through the haze, brittle and forced, dying as quickly as it sprouted. No one here trusted me—not truly—and it wasn’t just because of old grudges or the stains of what I’d done. It was the ghosts I carried deep within me, the shadows of my past that no one knew. Even if they did, they refused to acknowledge me, for I was the one brother in this clubhouse even King knew he couldn’t contain.
I could feel their judgment like cold rain on the back of my neck.
I forced myself to move, muscles tight as piano wire, as I weaved through the close press of tables and old leather chairs. The second I stood, so did King. He didn’t stop me as I passed a prospect, who shrank back, as if my touch might spoil his luck for life.
I couldn’t blame him, not really.
I wore my history like a battered patch, impossible to ignore.
Behind the bar, a prospect polished a glass. His eyes flickered up to meet mine. He was just a kid, an innocent, and even he could see the danger before him as he took a step back.
