“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Creighton speaks to me, but his cold gaze is locked with Papa’s. “Isn’t your family everything that matters? I’m making it easier for you.”
It hits me then.
The realization is so fierce that I stumble a step back, my flip-flops sinking in the sand.
All this time, all those words, all that torture was because he thought I was choosing my family over him.
That I would always pick my family, the people who were behind his childhood misery, over him. That I would force him to either accept them or I wouldn’t stay with him.
How did my attempts to free him from the past become falsified to the point where it’s now the complete opposite?
“That’s not…” My voice gets stuck in the back of my throat. I’ve always found it easy to talk about everything and nothing, but now I’m stunned into silence.
I can’t find the right words to relay the explosive feelings whirling inside me.
“Your biological father was a scum and died like a scum. He assaulted my wife when he was clearly ordered to protect her, so I killed him,” Papa says coldly with enough cool to make me shiver. “Your biological mother was of a similar breed, too. They both deserved their fate, and as I told your adoptive father, I will not apologize for protecting my family. However, you were only a kid and didn’t deserve to suffer the downfall of their actions, which is why I made sure you were adopted into a good family.”
Creighton’s jaw relaxes and mine falls open.
“Papa, you…you made sure of that?”
“No.” Creighton shakes his head. “You didn’t know.”
“Of course, I did. I followed Richard’s family's downfall long after he was dead. I had men watching your house, recording your mother’s desperate attempts to seduce the DA, an Italian mafia leader, a bank employee, anyone who could get her out of trouble. The night she lost all hope, committed suicide, and attempted to kill you, I was there.”
“Shut up.” Creighton’s voice comes out so raw that I want to hold him.
“I found you passed out by the front door, face blue, and vomit streaked all over your face. I gave you CPR and carried your small body to the hospital. Once you were recuperating, I entrusted you to Rai so she’d get you out of the States and free you of the bloody pit your parents dug for themselves. That’s how you got adopted into the current family you have. I might have taken your past life, but I gave you a new one. So even if you had a grudge, you should’ve come after me, but you were a coward who went after my children and I will not forgive you for that.”
Creighton’s breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in a deadly rhythm. As if he’s trying to expel a gloomy cloud that’s been festering inside him for years.
As if he can’t breathe hard enough or purge the energy bubbling inside him fast enough.
I tremble in sync with him, trying to see the revelations from his perspective.
He’s devastated, even more than when I shot him or when he found out the truth. The fact that the man he hated with all his heart, my father, is the same man who gave him the precious family and life he currently knows is ripping him apart.
I inch closer, wanting, no needing, to hold him in my arms, but his cold words directed at my father stop me.
“Kill me,” he spits out. “If you don’t, I’ll never stop.”
“Foolish fucking coward.” Papa clicks his magazine in place and I know I have seconds to react.
I don’t think about it as I snatch a gun from one of the guard's side holsters. I’m so fast that when I grab it, he has no time to stop me.
Creighton’s gaze finally falls on me, his eyes devoid of life, of that silent but caring Creighton I want back.
I’d go to unimaginable lengths to have him back.
Keeping my gaze on him, I point the gun at my temple.
“What are you doing, Anoushka?” Papa’s calm voice carries masked anger.
“Let him go,” I whisper with enough assertiveness that I believe myself.
It’s strange how simple and easy things become when you make up your mind. Peaceful, too. Like it was always meant to be.
The wind caresses my cold skin, no longer swaying me. It’s hugging me, holding my finger on the trigger and warming the barrel that’s glued to my temple.
“Annika…give me the gun.” Papa’s warning tone would’ve made me do anything not so long ago.
Not today.
“Let him go, or I swear I’ll shoot myself.” I don’t sound distressed, but more confident, because I’d do it.