One Last Rainy Day: The Legacy of a Prince(78)

Cranking my car to warm it up, “Tennessee” starts to blare through my speakers. Turning up the volume, I scoff at the lyrics as I wait, gaze drifting back to the window, specifically to the name.

Shooting out of the parking lot, song ringing in the cabin, irony strikes that my predicament is almost fucking prophetic at this point. A part I accused Sean of playing as the quilled pen swivels back in my direction, mocking me.

I’m no Romeo, but everything about this shit show has to do with our last names, our parents, a vendetta, and the reason why we’re destined to implode.

So, what’s in a name?

Everything.

Everything’s in a name. A name I take pride in because my brother made it that way. He made us future rulers from a pile of discarded fucking rubble, and every time I get drunk on blue flames, I ruin a part of what he gifted me.

Speeding down the main road, I accelerate as my mind wars with my chest.

At twenty-six, I see things so differently now than I did when I demanded so much of him. Throwing tantrums in my early teens, insisting he be more present when he was killing himself, and risking his life to provide for me, and not just the necessities. He struggled for years to give me a life neither of us could have imagined after starving for so many, both together and apart.

The feeling growing up in that house—especially during those years without him—was exactly like Cecelia described. Desperation vibrated from those walls. The atmosphere was so bleak that, at times, I thought I would just evaporate. My brother did his best to shield me from it, and to this day remains my protector.

He toed the line between parent and brother well, as he does everything else. Everything except women.

I’m almost positive he’ll never care about their place in my life—or his.

So now, in his eyes, I’ve taken part in the only unforgivable sin.

Because what Roman Horner did is unforgivable.

Fucking his daughter and ruining her should have been a given and would have done some collateral damage if Roman bothered to care enough about her ruin. As it is, she’s an orphan like me.

I’m incapable of going that far, even if my blood can run cold. For the most part, it still runs warm, and Cecelia keeps reminding me of that.

But I am doing a cold thing—just because I’m not deceiving her with malicious intent doesn’t mean I’m not hurting her or won’t.

She’s done exactly shit to deserve it, too. For me, she’s accurately what Tobias predicted a woman would be—a sanctuary.

I can practically hear the sarcastic “I told you so” dripping in French as I spin out on the first turn—this call close enough to have my adrenaline spiking and sweat dotting my brow.

“Naw, Sean, this is me spinning out,” I spit, gassing the Camaro, taking another curve, the car catching on the rising water before I shoot forward. In an instant, my brother’s voice cuts through my thoughts with a warning to calm the fuck down.

Something I haven’t been able to do successfully for long since my anger gained a sort of razor’s edge with his continued absence over the years. Anger no soul on this earth has been able to fully curtail—not even Sean. Cecelia’s been fruitless at times, too, walking on eggshells, and even for her, I haven’t always succeeded.

For her, I wanted to.

I really wanted to.

But I have to keep that anger and edge. With what we’re up against, she can’t soften that for me. She’s stolen too much already. At this point, I resent her as much as I want her, and right now, that’s a fucking lot.

Taking another curve, I hydroplane, only able to correct the wheel just in time to avoid certain fucking death.

I used to question why I don’t fear for my own safety. At first, I thought it was because I believed I was trash, or at the very least, the charity case I saw in the eyes of those who witnessed our neglect growing up. Now I know I’m not, but I’m determined to take out the true wastes of life, the scum of the earth, the real threats, and there’s a cost to being that type of garbage man.

A cost I know will come sooner than later. Just as that notion strikes me, the familiar urgency sets in—we’re wasting time.

I could fucking end this right now. Right fucking now.

With a bullet.

I can’t blame Cecelia, and I can’t blame my brother.

But I can blame Roman.

I can blame Roman for being the barrier between the life I could be living—unshackled, untethered, and freely reigning down punishment. A life I want more than any other.

I click my signal at the stop light while eyeing my glove box.

My ignorance is no longer bliss but blistering me, hindering me from the progression just as much as her father.

One-point blank shot to that arrogant prick’s skull will put my brother’s drawn-out mission to rest and grant me the freedom I need.

Even if I could kill him without remorse, I could never look at her, let alone touch her again with his blood on my hands.

A simple solution to an overly complicated problem.

Banging my head against the back of my rest, I shake my head in dismissal. Because of both Tobias and Cecelia, that bullet can’t fly.

Trapped by the stoplight, I glimpse Maman through the haze clouding the windshield, dancing and waving her hand in encouragement to join her before sweeping me into her hold and swaying with me all over the kitchen floor.