He whips around and glares at me. His brown eyes are darker than mine and ten times more affecting.
When I see his face, I gasp. He’s got a split lip, a bruised cheek, and a trickle of dried blood running down the edge of his jaw.
“What are you trying to say?” he demands. “That I don’t have money? That I can’t afford a fucking fridge?” He rounds the small kitchen island menacingly.
I try to back away without being too obvious. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Haven’t I provided for you all these years?” he seethes.
His chest rises and falls with the force of his anger. We’ve played out this scene in so many different iterations over the course of our time in exile.
My head hurts from the predictability of each beat.
Another botched attempt on the Clan.
Another failed venture to try and gain the upper hand.
Another futile effort to try and restore the family honor.
He may not be the strongest or the smartest man, my brother. But he’s always been the most determined. The most dedicated. I say that to him all the time. But lately, it’s stopped sounding like a compliment. Now, it just sounds like I’m listing flaws.
“You have provided—”
“Not enough for you, princess?” he growls, cutting me off. “Not the lifestyle you want?”
“That is not what I said.”
“You want someone to blame, blame him—”
“I do—”
“Blame the fucker who stole my birthright, slaughtered our father, and turned our family legacy to dust in one fucking afternoon!”
“I know—”
And I do know. I know everything Drago’s about to say before he says it.
I’m a fucking don.
“I’m a fucking don!”
But because of that Irish fucker, I’m in exile.
“…But because of that Irish fucker, I’m in exile!”
Despite all that, I kept you alive. Another man might have gotten rid of the dead weight. But not me. You owe me your life.
“Despite all that, I kept you alive. Another man might have gotten rid of the dead weight. But not me. You owe me your life!”
I nod. “I know, Drago. I—”
Normally, that’s enough to placate him.
But not tonight, it seems. Tonight, he lunges forward to seize a fistful of my hair and tug me towards him.
If I’d known he was feeling violent, I would’ve kept out of arm’s reach. But he caught me by surprise. The yank pulls me off-balance and I slam into the cheap tile floor. My knees scream in protest and the impact sends a ripple of shock up my whole spine.
He wants to inflict pain. Which usually means he wasn’t just defeated. He’s been humiliated, too. There’s nothing like beating up on a woman to make a weak man feel strong.