Have I not been generous enough? Supportive enough? Have I been more boss than brother? Is that why it is so fucking easy for him to betray me like this? Betray our parents?
“Jesus Christ.” Ripping off my tie, I unbutton my collar before snapping at my driver. “à la maison.” Home.
I glance out of the tinted window to a new world, one where I feel more alone than ever, with absolutely no one on my side. I search the street desperately for a kind face, a sign, a goddamn bird to let me know I’m thinking irrationally. And that’s when I catch sight of him—a familiar face, one of our first fucking Triple Falls recruits, turning the corner, chin dipping as he lifts his cell phone while I pass.
Dom is having me followed?
He’s the only one that knows of my whereabouts at all times.
My brother. My blood.
All the years of struggling, of self-deprivation, years of sacrificing, pushing away my needs, ignoring my wants, all the years I spent on the sidelines watching my brothers live fully while I worked tirelessly to build this dream alongside them.
And for what?
For what?
My cell rings, and I curse as I lift it, his voice coming out in a hiss the second I answer.
“You aren’t going anywhere, Ezekiel.”
“I don’t like your tone, Antoine.”
“I don’t give a fuck,” he snaps. “We have business.”
“I’ll brief Palo. He can handle it.”
“Don’t test my patience, Ezekiel. Your plans are going to have to wait.”
It took me three weeks to get home. Three weeks I needed to get Antoine off my fucking back enough to escape his clutches and handle my own shit. Three weeks I spent digging further into the lies and deceptions I’ve been fed in bits and pieces by the hands of the men I trusted most.
And I’ve gathered enough by now to know it was all intentional. They’d even gone so far as to publicly humiliate her in front of a few chapters to try to get word back to me and throw me off their scent. A weak attempt at best that reeks of desperation, and I know better. Which also tells me they know I know. Since then, I’ve cut all communication with them in hopes of striking fear into them. And from the countless texts they’ve sent since, it’s working.
It’s always matters of the heart that bring men like me—like Roman, like fucking Antoine—down, and for that reason alone, I’ve steered clear.
It’s always matters of the heart that turn solid statues back into pawns to be easily flicked off the board. Love and emotions have always equated to weakness. And they knew it when they decided on her, chose her. I made sure they knew it. I advised against it at every turn but knew that eventually—when they grew into their most comfortable skin—there would come a time to make allowances for whatever partner they chose.
I was prepared for that. It was inevitable.
But this?
There’s no preparation for this.
Anger has taken hold now, and it’s the anger I can’t get control of as I head from the airport toward my clearing. For the first time as an adult, I want to strike my brother, yet I know I won’t forgive myself if I do.
It’s a good thing I left my heart scattered all over Paris because with it here, I’m liable to make a fucking fool of myself. But this anger, I’ve never felt anything quite like it. It’s a mixture of wrath that is limitless and liberating for the surge of power it brings that frees me from all liability from the damage I could inflict, and it’s fucking terrifying how good it feels.
Before I can face them, I need something, anything, a fond memory to reflect on so I don’t react so vengefully. Even weeks after that call, I’m still so fucking raw, aching in a way I know I’ll never be able to repair.