Page 17 of The Hate We Breathe
He jerks his thumb over his shoulder in a command to get inside before replying. “Damn right, there’s a problem,” he practically snarls as I move up the stairs. “You ain’t been answering your damn phone.”
The second I get close, he doesn’t back out of the way to let me in as I wish he would. Instead, his hand snaps up and slaps the side of my head. I grit my teeth. My fingers curl into fists, short nails stabbing into my palms.
“You wanna let me in, old man, or you wanna try and give me a beating on the front lawn?” I ask casually.
His sneer is unamused, but finally, he backs into the house and lets me through. I slam the door shut behind me and turn to find Mama hovering in the opening to the kitchen, her hands wringing together in front of her stomach.
“D-Darrio,” she stutters. “Gio is a good boy, I’m sure h-he was just?—”
“Shut up, Camila,” my father snaps. The disrespect in his tone makes my chest squeeze tight. “I didn’t ask you for your opinion. I’m talking to my son. Go finish making dinner.”
Mama winces, but then ducks her head, turns, and shuffles out of sight. My attention returns to the man in front of me. An old, faded tattoo peeks out from the collar of his worn, black short-sleeved button-down. His thick neck is corded with veins that stand out against the skin as he glares at me. I imagine wrapping my hands around his throat and squeezing until his eyes bulge and his face turns purple.
Sometimes, I dream of the night the guys and I rescued Juliet from her kidnappers. I remember punching a man in the face over and over again until it was little more than a bloody pulp. The feel of a switchblade in my hand. The drops of blood on my face and throat. When I look down at them—it’s my father’s face that I see.
Maybe Nolan is right—maybe seeing this man locked up for the rest of his life won’t be enough.
The blow to the side of my head reminds me why it’s never a good idea to stop paying attention around my father. Thankfully, it’s just another slap rather than a punch, so it won’t leave me with a shiner. I stumble a bit, and then shake my head before looking up at my father.
“What the fuck are you boys doing?” he demands. “You’re supposed to be working, ain’t you?” He raises his hand again. This time I don’t flinch as it comes down. “You three came to me,didn’t you? You wanted the money. Now, what? You think you’re too good?”
I don’t say a word, don’t explain, don’t even grunt as he continues to smack me. Slapping one side of my cheek and then the other.
The final slap, though, comes harder than the others and my bottom lip tears slightly at the action. The sharp sting is accompanied by the taste of blood. “Answer me!” Darrio yells.
“Do you want me to answer you?” I ask as I reach up and swipe a thumb across my lower lip. It comes away stained in red. I lift my gaze to his. “Or do you just want to hit me some more?”
His already dark gaze narrows and he practically trembles with barely repressed rage. Then, he lifts a fat finger and points it right in my face. “You better mind your fucking tone,boy,” he bites out. “Or I’ll start thinking you think it’s all right to disrespect your father.”
“A man earns respect,” I reply, straightening to my full height. Normally, I hunch my shoulders a bit around him—it’s easier than dealing with his insecurity. He hates being looked down on. Even now, I can see the change come over him. The slight widening of his eyes and nostrils, then the renewed glow of animosity in the depths of his gaze.
I don’t know why he hates me so much, but I don’t care. The feeling is mutual.
“I’m your father,” he growls before stepping back. He glares at me as he lumbers over to the sagging couch and then lowers himself into his usual position before lifting a can of beer from the table next to it. “That earns me enough respect. Now, answer my damn questions.”
“You know what we’ve been doing,” I say, narrowing my gaze on him. I’m not fucking stupid.
My father has men watching the three of us. He knows who we’ve been with and what we’ve been doing. We let himknow because it’s easy to handle him when he thinks he knows something that we don’t. I’m getting real sick of playing his games, though.
Darrio takes a long drag of his beer before huffing out an aggravated breath. “You been fucking that rich bitch,” he snaps, then smirks to himself. “Well, guess she ain’t rich no more.” He shakes his head and it takes all of my self-control not to barrel across the room and punch the shit out of him for how he refers to Juliet. “I thought I told you boys to stay the fuck away from her. Pussy is just fucking pussy. You?—”
“And I’m pretty sure that Nolan told you to mind your own fucking business, old man.” I move closer to him, striding across the room until he’s within reach. He tenses and for a moment, I think he’s about to stand up and go toe to toe with me. To my surprise, his mouth curves into a knowing smile. The sight of it sets my nerves on edge and makes cold dread trail across my nape.
Darrio Vargas is a fucking relic of old crime power and he doesn’t see that what he might have had thirty or even fifty years ago is no longer his to take. He was born in the wrong time and he’s still trying to find his way in a world that wants nothing to do with him. I’d pity him if I didn’t despise him so fucking much.
“Fine.” I’m so caught up in the staring contest we seem to be locked in and the hatred filling my veins that I almost miss his response.
“Fine?” I frown.
Darrio shrugs and takes another drink. “Fuck with the killer bitch if you want,” he tells me. “She’ll be run out of town or arrested sooner or later.”
My throat tightens. No. She won’t be. We won’t ever let that happen. Instead of saying as much, I back off, turning away from the piece of shit and heading down the hall to the bedrooms.
“Giovanni?” Mama’s voice calls after me from the kitchen. I don’t respond. As angry as I am, I’m liable to take it out on her right now.
I stomp past the doorway to my bedroom and slam the door shut. The only reason Darrio isn’t doing anything about Juliet is because he thinks she’ll be taken care of soon without him ever having to lift a finger. He thinks he knows everything. He has no fucking clue what’s coming.
What worries me more… is none of us do.
