One Last Rainy Day: The Legacy of a Prince(26)

“You don’t know what you’re asking me. Every day you deny me to act is a day wasted.” Another life stolen, innocence lost, and a monster’s victory. But I can’t let on too much about how it’s affecting me. He’s rested the club’s fate in my hands, and if he catches wind of how much my side project is fucking with the job, he may very well snatch it out of my grasp. I need some semblance of control. If Tobias takes the day-to-day away from me, it will be a fate worse than the one I’m living. His silence on the other end of the line tells me he’s contemplating that decision.

“Stop. Don’t even think about it,” I warn.

“If you know what I’m thinking, then why are we having this conversation?”

His accent is getting thicker, and for some reason, it irritates me. Maybe it’s because I don’t want him claiming home to be on that side of the ocean. Though at this point, he’s lived more of his life in France than he has here.

“We can’t risk it, Dom.”

“What they’re doing . . . what they’re fucking getting away with—”

“Has been happening for endless years and isn’t stopping anytime soon.”

“I get your logic,” I admit begrudgingly.

“Do you?” His tone is full of condescension.

If he’s speaking to Tyler as often as he is to me—and Tyler gives him more reason to worry—I might have already lost my place.

“Don’t fucking do it,” I snap. “I’ll do your bidding. I haven’t moved in on shit. That’s why we’re fucking arguing.”

“Prove it is the right decision. Your time will come, brother.”

“And how many times have I heard that?” I snap, running my knuckles down my wheel in a way that burns. I hear the clink of ice to glass and know then that he’s also not putting a real voice to what’s got him so worked up.

“Any progress on finding him?” I ask in an attempt to get something from him. Our conversations are rare as is, and I know it’s so he can stay focused. For whatever reason, he’s chosen our club’s tipping point to search for his birth father, and I’m trying not to begrudge him for it.

“No,” he replies. “A whisper of something, then silence for fucking days, sometimes weeks.”

“Elusive, huh? An inherited trait, no doubt.”

“I’m trying, Dom.”

“Try harder.”

“You’ve been no help to me recently,” he snaps.

“A little busy here,” I say through clenched teeth.

“Tell me,” he urges, not as the shot caller but as my brother. His emotional whiplash tells me he’s just as on edge as I am.

“My job has been a little hectic lately, but our pension is looking pretty fucking spectacular.”

“Good to hear,” he muses. “How are things at home?”

Delphine.

“The definition of insanity.” I scrub my face thinking about my aunt rotting away in that house—how I watched her pour a drink from the porch just after parking her in her recliner earlier today. She’s shackled herself to that house for as long as I can remember now. It’s as if she’s serving a self-imposed prison sentence.

“Don’t let her miss a treatment,” he orders.

“I’ve got it,” I snap.

Silence. The clink of ice.

“Try not to resent me too much, brother,” he finally says, recognizable guilt coating his tone. He’s either on his third or fourth drink and getting antsy due to the time away—mostly from me. The paternal concern is starting to kick in. What he doesn’t realize is that I’m just as fucking worried about his situation. On that, I’m done obeying orders and formulating a plan instead.

“You tell me about home,” I prod.

“I’m talking to home.”

“You do know the definition of insanity, don’t you?”

He circles his glass, and I realize he’s drained it already. That knowledge grates on me.

“It’s repeating the same actions over and over again and expecting different results. That’s where waiting has gotten us.”

He releases my name like it’s a nuisance as a text comes through my personal cell.

Ginger: He’s here.

“Don’t let my shit keep you from sipping your guilt away, brother, seeing how it’s worked out so fucking well for the rest of the family. I have shit to do.”

Smashing the phone into my dash, I toss its remains on my passenger floorboard. Reveling in the timing of Ginger’s text, I allow the residual anger to snake its way into my vision. Downshifting, I fly in the direction of her apartment. Once parked, I grab what I need from my glove box. As I do, recent, concerned looks of every single one of my inked brothers flit through my mind . . . along with Tobias’s warning. Pressing send on a last-minute text to Sean, I slam my door closed and make a beeline for Ginger’s apartment door.

Ginger opens the door just as I approach, and I see the source of her fear standing next to a littered coffee table. Nearby, a baby no older than a year bounces in a chair. Rage engulfs me, and I zone in on the motherfucker who barely has time to drop his glass pipe before I’m on him. Clamping a hand on his neck, I drag him toward the open front door.