Isaiah kept his voice smooth. “Remember Patricia Petrov?”
Carlisle’s smile quickly dropped as he leaned back in his seat.
Isaiah tapped his fingers on his chin. “The Russian wife of that mobster, way back when?” He shrugged. “You probably forgot all about her. I mean, after all, how many women did you rape after you shot their husband in the head? And then ordered one of these two fucks to kill her?” Isaiah nodded to my father and Brantley’s, and from the moment he said Patricia’s name, I knew exactly where this was headed.
“So what?” Frank spat, glaring at his son. Brantley remained unmoving, but I was certain there were many things firing off in his brain.
Isaiah laughed out loud. “There was a witness, you fucking idiots. All it takes is one word from us, and she’ll be spilling the dirty truth.”
Silence rendered them speechless. Frank’s nostrils flared, and when I glanced at Brantley, I saw the muscles along his temples ticking. That night was one of the worst nights ofBrantley’s life. It was the first time he had to witness how much of a monster his father was.
“Clock’s ticking,” I seethed, glaring at my father. The anger was there, present as it always was. I half-expected him to bang his hands against the plastic as a way to intimidate me. He was always the more physical of the three of them. Isaiah’s father was the silent type, shooting people when they least expected, and Brantley’s father simmered on his anger, letting it build up within his silence before lashing out. And my father was damn near unpredictable. The three of them together were deadly.
Carlisle leaned back as far as he could in his seat and snarled. “Why would I believe you three?”
This time, Brantley spoke. “Because you can’t fucking risk it.”
Carlisle cracked his neck, showing his teeth like he was ready to bite someone, before finally spilling. “We’ve only crossed Slave a few times.” Bingo. Thank fuck. “We never sold guns to him.”
“That’s because he was Callum’s client,” Brantley guessed.
So, Bain was involved, but how? My nostrils flared, and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep myself from flipping out of my seat and losing control.
Carlisle ignored Brantley without confirming, but he didn’t need to. We had already gotten the gist. “Technically, Slave was our top enemy. He’s in charge of Callum.”
“I thought Bain’s father was the ringleader of their gun trade. He’s been working for someone?” Dread began to settle on my shoulders.
Isaiah’s father sighed irritatingly. “He owed Slave a shit-ton of money, a debt, so Slave started gaining a profit off their income from gun-selling to rectify the loss.”
Which explained why Callum had started stealing our clients months ago.
“Why did he owe him money?”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I already knew. Deep down, I already fucking knew, and when the words left his mouth, my vision blurred, and the room grew dark.
“He sold him a girl or some shit but never handed her over.”
He sold him a girl.
He sold him a girl.
He sold him a girl.
My hand slapped down on the metal table, causing the guard to step forward. Isaiah raised his hand in an attempt to signal that we were okay, and when I glanced back at my father, he was smiling wildly, as if he enjoyed seeing me lose it.
“Are you done with your little bitch fit?” Carlisle asked, keeping his gaze level with his son’s. He didn’t give me a chance to answer—not that I would have—and continued, “This was years ago. Callum gave up part of the company to pay back his debt. He and Slave made a deal in order to save his life, because once you cross Slave, you’re usually done for.”
Brantley cursed. “Why did he sell him a girl?”
Although I needed to hear more, I didn’t want to. My stomach burned, and my throat closed. Journey was fucking sold like cattle.
“Callum’s wife had cheated on him, so he sold the baby to Slave as a way to get back at her. This was before they had Bain.”
Brantley’s father spoke up beside him in his rough voice. “Probably for sex trade, or maybe to keep her for himself when she became of age. Or maybe Slave’s girl wanted a baby. He got married at some point, but she’s dead.”
“Because he killed her.” My father laughed at this, as if it were funny. Fucking psycho. It was like old times—the three of us on one side, and the three of them on the other as they talked “shop”.
“I fucking hate you.” The four words came out quickly, and I didn’t even flinch when I realized I’d been the one to say them. My father turned his freshly shaved head and glared at me straight on, as if he could do something. “I do,” I reiterated. “I hate you, and Mom hates you, too. Did you know that? She tried to run away with me so many times when I was younger I’d lost count, but we always came back because she was afraid you’d never stop looking and that you’d end up killing her or me.”