One Last Rainy Day: The Legacy of a Prince(93)

Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

“. . . is an illusion, baby.”

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

“. . . for once, can you lie to me?”

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

“. . . hate the ground you walk on.”

Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh Sean’s eyes find mine once again.

“When?” When did you find out?

“Now.” When I texted you.

“Fuck,” I sweep Cecelia from head to foot as anxiety takes hold. “Get her home.”

Sean moves to usher Cecelia away, and she refuses him, rushing toward me instead as our cloud starts to disburse. When she reaches me, I sweep her into a kiss, feeling the break start inside as she surrounds me. Clinging to every second, desperation laces the last press of my lips. “You gotta go, baby.”

I keep her gaze for as long as I can, burning it in, knowing the next time our eyes meet, that look may only be glimpsed in memory.

Sean whisks her away, and it’s the brush of our fingers as she literally slips through my hands, and our cover disappears that does me in. As she vanishes from my peripheral, the loss consumes me, and I boil over.

Destroying everything in my path, the crashes fuel me as I fucking rage against the laughing heavens who duped me into thinking this reality was possible. A reality where I got to keep the girl and everything else I hold close. But I can’t exactly blame them because I called on them too late. I can’t blame fate or the fortune that’s never been on my side, or anyone . . . but myself. I forged my own future from the minute I was capable and chose this fate. It was only inevitable that after ignoring every crackle of warning in the sky and every rumbling step that followed outside my window, the heartless giant I helped to create would finally appear.





Trying to reason with love is fucking pointless. It doesn’t care about your reasons, right or wrong. Love has no regard for circumstance, nor does it give a fuck what state it puts you in. It’s a relentless and unforgiving emotion that will never let you lie to yourself.—Tobias, The Finish Line





“Please, Dom. Please don’t go.”

Hell exists.

Hell’s current geographic location? Paris

The city my brother conquered in his early twenties and declared our righteous prison.

Hell’s definition? Replaying the last year and change on a loop while questioning my decisions and the choice I made every second of every day since.

Because the Giant didn’t appear.

No, Tobias waited three agonizing weeks to come home. Weeks in which we pleaded with him to return our calls and texts. Weeks where Sean and I lost our goddamned minds, completely unaware of where his own cognizance was at—along with his whereabouts and intentions for us—Tyler included.

Tobias either figured it out before he made the bird I charged to watch him or spotted his feathered tail just after—because he dropped off the radar. This left us scrambling in his wake, only to imagine and prepare for the worst.

For two of those weeks, Cecelia fled to Georgia with a broken heart—a heart that we shattered by design in an attempt to get a message to him. The mystery of who spilled our secret remains unknown. It was a bird outside of our inner circle, of that much we were certain as we formulated a plan.

Said plan was as much of a fool’s plot as the one we used to betray Tobias. Which, in turn, cleaved me in two—leaving me in dual, measured pieces burning in the aftermath. One part was on fire for her, the other, sifting through the singed remnants for any remaining bond with my brother.

Watching Cecelia crumble in the garage while realizing what vindictive actions we’re capable of was one of the most brutal experiences I’ve ever endured.

I broke my own vow to guard her immaculate heart in a stupid fucking attempt to distance her from our deceit and keep her safely away from my brother’s wrath.

Witnessing her spiral—which felt like it played out in slow motion—further widened the fracture inside me, especially when her deep blues beseeched us for any sign it wasn’t the truth. Sean had given me the ammo to make it convincing, and it was. Too convincing.

For me, at the time, it was the only way to try to distance her from the path of destruction coming our way. While also attempting to mask the truth until we had a chance to explain ourselves.

When Sean broke at the sight of it, his punch felt like a bee sting compared to the gutting I felt as she cried openly—which further drove the slow sink of the knife into my chest as it pierced her own due to our gift of precision. Every agonizing second of watching her fall apart in that garage will forever be ingrained in my memory.

Those weeks of torment have only led to more in those that followed, heading up to the minutes that now haunt my every waking hour.

“Please, Dom. Please don’t go.”

After two weeks of deserved silence from the two people we annihilated for our selfish gain, Sean and I decided that when and if Cecelia returned to the plant, Sean would come clean about Roman. Thus revealing him as the prime suspect in my parents’ death and our revenge plans while omitting Tobias. A way to further prepare her while giving her leverage in an effort to gain some of her trust back.

A risk we decided was worth taking if we only implicated ourselves. We’d already given her access to the club, how we worked, and our trust.