Page 51 of Sinners & Saints (Sinners & Saints)

“In good time.” Silas smiles. “On second thought, there is one small thing I want to add. Whether you win or lose, you stay the hell away from my nephew. He doesn’t need you bouncing in and out of his life whenever you feel like playing the role of father.”

I struggle to hide my reaction. Suddenly the hostility between the two men makes sense. This is Sammy’s uncle and the man that Daze supposedly attacked on Lyra’s doorstep.

“Oh, I got it.” Daze shakes his head, chuckling. “Let me tell you what willreallyhappen—you can have whatever toys you want to play king. Take my position, take the power, take my money. I don’t fucking care. But you stay the hell away from SammyandLyra. You got that?” Suddenly, he’s closer, though Silas doesn’t shy away. They stand toe to toe, the visual representation of light and dark. Yin and Yang.

Where Silas is unnerving calm, Daze is all burning rage. “I mean it. Go near him again, and I will fucking kill you,” he snarls.

“Oh?” Silas’ eyes widen in mock surprise. “Just like you killed his mother?”

FOURTEEN

Like you killed his mother.

My throat goes dry as that accusation lands like a nuclear bomb—but if it was meant to throw him off, Daze doesn’t blink. Instead, his lips part into a devious grin that transforms his entire face. His eyes seem brighter. Darker. Colder.

And that unsettling, ominous sensation I felt at the door returns in full. It’s clear now, more than ever—he’s a total stranger.

Someone, I’m not sure I even want to know...

“Yeah.” He cocks his head thoughtfully while extending his hand. One by one, he lowers each finger on it, ticking off an invisible list. “I’ll kill you like I killed her—fuck your goddamn brains out. Beg you to get clean. Get screwed over, and then watch you fuck up again and again—”

“Like you didn’t put the needle in her arm?” Silas takes a step closer, and I stumble back out of pure instinct. They’re inches away now, their gazes locked, but an unmistakable tension in the air seems more alarming than the threat of a fight.

It’s pure, primal hatred.

“Like you didn’t get her pregnant and leave her high and dry?” Silas wonders, his teeth bared. “Some father of the year you turned out to be, too. Not only did you fail the organization thatelectedyou leader, but you couldn’t even stick around for Samuel—”

“And we both know why that is, don’t we, Silas?” Daze bites back.

There’s more to what he’s said than what’s on the surface. Silas’ eyes narrow, confirming the suspicion. It was a threat, but in what way? What could keep a father away from his son other than basic neglect?

“Damn,” Daze murmurs without elaborating, shaking his head. Another flashing smile adds a chilling contrast to the grit in his tone. “I abandoned him now? You’re so busy trying to sniff my shit that you didn’t even see what was under your fucking nose. Those new ‘friends’ of yours? You think someone with that kind of power won’t turn on you the second they get the chance? You’re playing with fire—”

“That’s enough!” Chris slams his hand on the counter, and both men draw back ever so slightly. It’s not enough to calm my heartbeat, however. I thought Hale and our father could go at it.

But this is something else.

Something violent.

Something, I suspect, that has been a long time in the making.

There’s a grim history written in Daze’s gaze. Still, he somehow manages to smirk and snatches a freshly filled shot glass from the counter—courtesy of Chris, I guess. In one go, he downs it all.

“Fuck this,” Daze tells Silas after swallowing, swiping his hand across his mouth. “If you want to turn me down, then fine. Let everyone here know as much—” he raises his voice. “And remember whose shoes you’re trying to fill. When I was in charge, we didn’t rub shoulders with the fucking mob. We didn’t deal in hard drugs, and we certainly didn’t dabble in the black market. I know what you’re really selling these days, Silas, and it isn’t the stuff we used to trade in.”

Silas holds his gaze, saying nothing. After what feels like a full minute, he pushes past Daze, nudging his shoulder—hard—before heading for a door at the opposite end of the room. On the back of his leather jacket, I spy a breathtaking design. The red-eyed skull sits in the center, among two lines of script spelling outWestpoint Saints.It reminds me almost of the jackets Covenant missionaries wear when doing volunteer work. Though, I suspect these men aren’t planning on heading to the soup kitchen any time soon.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Silas says, his voice drifting back to us. “That you’re not a fucking washed-up piece of shit. That we all aren’t better off without you. If you say it enough...maybe you’ll fucking believe it. If you change your mind about groveling for scraps, come to Hades. I’ll let you play one final time. But on my terms. My rules.”

There must be another exit because he storms through the double doors and out of view. A few members of the crowd follow him out, and gradually the previous, lighthearted mood returns as conversation picks up again.

An underlying sense of dread remains, however. I suspect that “fight” was code for something far more sinister than a sparring match.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” The quiet warning comes from Chris, who nearly lunges across the counter toward Daze. “I thought you wanted to taunt the bastard. Flaunt your presence here—but fight? You do that, and you’re as good asdead.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Daze shrugs himself free but snatches up his bar stool and perches himself on the very edge. “I’m fine. Don’t look at me like that. I’m fine!”

“Fine,” Chris snaps. Reaching beneath the counter, he withdraws a bottle and slides it across the counter. “But you’ll need something stronger. It’s on the house.”

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