One Last Rainy Day: The Legacy of a Prince(107)

Sorry brother.

Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

Irony strikes me then that I’ve been waiting for what seems like a lifetime to start this war. But with my brother’s confession about Roman—about Cecelia’s mother—I waited in vain.

As I inch closer, my intuition grants me a revelation that ignites me.

All this time, I’ve been waiting to pull the trigger when I am the fucking trigger.

Feeling the truth of that to my core, I lift my chin, eyes mirroring the black gaze of the monsters I’ve battled my whole life and everything they represent—the system that set us all up for failure. That put us at war with each other as they watched on in amusement while creating more power-hungry predecessors. All of it’s there—the poverty, the pain, the suffering, the division, and all for one thing that has never been successfully bought or retained in human history—control.

It ends here and starts here.

I might not be able to take them all out, but this monster . . . this fucking monster is mine. With a head full of vengeance and a heart fueled by blue fire, I feel the last chain break free as I take my next step and engage the abyss. “Care to dance?”

“Honored, my friend,” the evil replies.

“Make it a good one.”

“Dominic, no!”




White hot pain blinds me as it shoots through my limbs as I’m struck forward by another bullet—this one ripping through my shoulder. My eyes find Cecelia, relief covering me to see her whole and untouched as a wave of pain blinds me, and I reach for her. A second later, she’s in my arms as I collapse against the wall, fire circulating in my belly as a chill skitters up my spine.

Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

Pain takes hold, breaths hard-earned as Tobias appears, cursing while trying desperately to plug the holes running through me. Cecelia’s cries drag me back to her as I take relief in seeing them both unscathed.

“Go,” I tell them both with what energy remains as their words blur, my pulse slowing as the pain takes over.

Whoosh . . . Whoosh . . . Whoosh . . . Whoosh.

Feeling myself slipping, Cecelia pleads for me to hold on, apologies pouring from her lips. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”

Focusing on my brother, I see my fate solidify in his eyes and, in return, give him words I know he’ll understand. Words that, deep down, he’s always understood and a truth I’ve always known. “Nous savions tous les deux que je n’allais jamais voir mes trente ans, mon frère. Prends soin d’elle.” We both know I was never going to make it to thirty, brother. Take care of her.

Seeing the promise in his eyes, I feel the urgency of the threat waiting behind the front door, and voice as much. “Go,” I manage through a cough, tasting the blood coating my mouth as I wheeze through the pain. “Please.”

“No,” Cecelia shakes her head furiously, demand in her deep blues. “Sorry, you can’t go, Dominic, because I dreamed your future up for you. Hang on, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Staring up and into the soul of the woman worth warring over—who gave me a glimpse of heaven on earth, aware of just how much power her love holds—I again curse the fucking fate that allowed it to be taken from me. But just as that thought drifts in, what I thought I’d been robbed of is gifted in the way it always has been, through her, because it was never about the weather, time, or place.

Whoosh . . . Whoosh . . . Whoosh . . .

Her warmth engulfs me. The atmosphere shifting as tumultuous storm clouds gather in her eyes, and her rain begins to pelt me—all burden lifting, along with any remnants of anger. A bone-deep chill sweeps through my body as the pain abates, and her turbulent blues pierce and hook me, sweeping me away.





Denny



Every unmarked mother fucker in that house is about to die.

It’s my only thought as Tyler emerges from the trees, Cecelia’s blood-soaked clothes in hand. Discarding them, he nods toward me, pulling twin Glocks from his sides as he starts toward the house at a dead run. My gun at the ready, I cover him, and within seconds we’ve breached the trees at the side of the house near the pool—the roar of gunfire sounding around us.

Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

The rapid fire only fuels me, letting me know it’s not too late to join the party, and frankly, I can’t fucking wait.

So, I don’t.

Covering Tyler, I shift when a man appears in my peripheral just outside the tree line. It takes a split second before I identify him, my gun already trained on him.

Not a bird.

Squeezing the trigger, he goes down in a heap.

Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.

Most of the gunfire comes from inside the house, a window shattering as we approach, and another figure enters my peripheral. I turn to see Jeremy backing away from the gate, eyes trained as he lifts his gun.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Another down.

He turns to me just after and gives me a dip of his chin, expression murderous, but the message is clear—he’s got our six.

Making my way to the back door, Tyler already inside, I start to toe it open and hear a struggle ensuing on the other side. After rolling in, guns raised, I catch sight of Sean on the kitchen floor, feet ahead. He’s straddling one of the Miami crew, blood lust in his expression as he presses his gun against the fucker’s throat in an effort to crush his windpipe.