One Last Rainy Day: The Legacy of a Prince(37)
Redirecting my inspection, my anger flares further when I see the same tattered backpack next to his books.
“The fuck happened to the shoes and backpack?”
Zach keeps his chin tucked into his chest. “Uh, the shoes were the wrong size.”
“Doesn’t explain why you aren’t wearing the right one. And the backpack?”
“Dom—”
“Look at me,” his eyes lift, but his neck remains lowered. “Lift your chin, Zach,” I grit out.
When he does, I get a clear view of the finger-sized bruises on his throat. They’re faint but damning. Turning, I walk down the aisle and pin Tim to an endcap just as he walks out of the stockroom.
“Get out,” he wheezes.
“So, daddy finally found the money I’ve been tucking into his son’s backpack for years.”
“My son is none of your bus—” I squeeze harder, interrupting his rant until he’s ripping at my hand for air. The only sound in the store coming from the lotto machines. Neither man playing has bothered to look back. Good on them.
Time is ticking, and I know I need to back away, but one look in Zach’s direction—of the fear in his eyes—has me finishing what I started.
“You robbed your own goddamn son, Tim, and for what?”
“It’s none—”
Squeezing tighter, I cut him off. “We’re over that, far past formal introductions and pleasantries. I know you used to run with my brother, and that you know I know that. So, at one point, you had potential, but we both know how you wasted it and have no one to blame but yourself.”
“Dom, you know it’s been hard for me since his mother left—”
“Who the fuck could blame her? Have you seen your fucking reflection lately?” I tighten my grip on his throat to make sure I don’t get a response. Releasing him, he remains where he stands, neck marred, which brings me little satisfaction.
“I’m going to make this easy since you seem like a pretty simple man. The money I’m about to give Zach to replace the shoes and backpack you stole and anything extra belongs to him. For needs you can’t meet because you’re a worthless, selfish fucking drunk. Anything else I decide to gift your son better fucking remain in his possession.”
Not so playfully tapping his jaw, I walk over to where Zach stands, his own profile ghastly white, and hand him one of my burner phones after programming my cell in. A now-shaking Tim keeps himself busy restocking the endcap I destroyed.
“Memorize this number and call me. Every goddamn day. If he touches you when I leave, call me—if you have to, come to the garage. Do you know where it is?”
Zach nods, eyes soaked in fear as I pull out a wad of bills and place them in his shaking palm, rage seeping into me at the fear that’s been instilled in him.
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,” I relay as twin tears he’s been fighting finally spill over his cheeks.
At the sight of them, it takes every ounce of my strength to speak instead of act. “Zach, look at me.”
He does, and I fight within myself to keep what’s threatening to unleash locked down. “This is not your fault. It’s his fucking failure.” Zach swallows. “Do you hear me?” I stare into the eyes of a terrified boy who’s been living impoverished and seemingly punished for merely existing in a drunk’s selfish world—no doubt feeling like an unwanted burden, an obligation. A boy I’ve watched grow up over the years and was forced to abandon when I went to Boston. A boy who’s habitually abused by the adult he’s been forced to call his father. “It was his decision to become who he is, and it’s going to be your choice not to be anything like him. One you’ll make every day. Understand?”
Zach gives me another nod, his tears flowing freely. Tears that tell me he’s suffered horribly, which pushes me to my limit. I snatch my drink from the counter and know I have to bail when a sob escapes him.
“Get me a wrap, okay?” I slap a twenty on the counter. It’s when I see the bruised fingerprints on the back of Zach’s neck that I step back over to Tim, who refuses to meet my eyes. Forcing my way into his personal space, they fearfully snap up. “If you abuse him again in any way, I will fucking kill you.”
Tim gapes at me as Zach turns and pauses, gauging his father’s expression when I stalk back over to grab the papers.
“Thanks,” I collect them and see my hand is visibly shaking, “be good.”
“I will.” Zach nods, and I can tell he wants to say more but doesn’t. Knowing that fear will have him in a chokehold until he believes any part of what I told him.
He’s eleven, so it won’t be too much longer until the resentment kicks in and the anger follows. What scares me is who he’ll become when he gets angry about the venomous hand he’s been dealt in a world that’s fucked him. Dressed in rags, surrounded by bigots who continually shame him for doing nothing but breathing in and out and trying to survive another fucking day with a growling stomach.
Will he start to retaliate against it? Will there be a fucking soul there to hold him back? A person aware of the war that will rage between his heart and mind to help him understand the way my brother—who’s still trying to reel in my resentment for Delphine—helps me?
Exiting the station with worry for the future of the replica of a younger me on the other side of the glass, I’m stopped short when I see Cecelia hemmed up at my hood, being harassed by one of the regulars at the machines.