Page 69 of Adam
I’m nowhere near as contained as he is. I already know this conversation won’t lead anywhere. In the end, I’ll have to obey him, like everyone else does, but I can’t help myself. I have to fight back, at least once, for me.
“Did it ever cross your mind to ask me?” I demand, trying not to lose it.
“I don’t have to.”
“What?” I snap.
“It’s business. A powerful man wants to meet you, and I don’t have time for your attitude. You’ll show up, look pleasant, and keep quiet. That’s all you’re good for tomorrow night. He needs you to be more … approachable.”
“Dad!” The word tears out of me, my rage boiling over. There’s no way he said that.
“Be careful. You don’t get second chances with people like him,” he says, his voice flat, all business. Then he glances at Adam, dismissing me like I’m not even in the room. “And since she’s proven she can’t handle something that simple, you’ll make sure she doesn’t embarrass me again. Keep her in line. Make her look presentable.” He rolls his eyes again. “Maybe, for once in her life, she’ll actually be worth something.”
My pulse is drumming in my ears, and my temples are throbbing. Adam uncrosses his arms and takes a step forward, his dark eyes locked on my father.
But I’m past reason. Enough is enough.
“I don’t give a shit about our future!” I snap, my palms clenching into fists next to me. “I don’t care about your pathetic rules, your beliefs, or that dirty empire you’re so damn proud of.” I pant. “Oh, and for your precious friends—I hope they choke on the impression we make.”
It’s never the things you hear that break you. It’s the things you admit out loud. Once you say them, they stop being fears or wishes. They become facts. All the half-truths you’ve been stuffing down, all the little prayers that maybe you’re wrong … they clot into something solid the moment your mouth makes them real, and that stings worse than anything anyone else could throw at you.
“I don’t give a shit about anything.” I pause, realizing that this is just the truth. “Just like you don’t give a shit about me.”
Lazily, he takes his filthy cigar between his fingers and lets out a long, jaded exhale. He drives it to his lips, his eyes locked on his laptop screen as if that’s more important than his actual daughter in front of him.
My heart slams against my chest so hard it almost hurts to breathe.
Everyone has limits. Lines you don’t cross, words you don’t say. They’re what keep you from exploding, from burning everything down.
And my father just crossed them all.
Determined, I stride toward him and slap the cigar out of his hand. “Don’t ignore me!” I shout.
The cigar hits the ground before I can blink.
In the next heartbeat, he’s on his feet, gun drawn and aimed straight at me, but at the same time, Adam’s hands clamp at my ribs, eliciting a sharp gasp from me. He drags me behind him, then squares his shoulders and steps out. The gun settles against his heaving sternum. Rage flashes across his face.
Oh, my God.
Their eyes lock, fury simmering beneath the surface. Neither of them moves. It feels like watching two beasts circling, waiting for the first to strike. Two animals ready to tear each other apart over the same ground.
Boris already has his gun out, aimed at Adam, perfectly still, waiting for my father’s nod or the tiniest twitch to pull the trigger.
And Adam … He looks like a man who’d rather die than let my father, or anyone, touch me.
“Put that down,” Adam says calmly.
“Don’t you ever pull that shit with me again, you ungrateful, filthy spawn,” Dad roars, the veins in his neck straining.
A shit ton of emotions flood me at the moment—fear, regret, guilt, rage—and honestly, I don’t even know which one is the right one.
I’m scared for myself. For Adam. I’m terrified that my father is capable of ending him in a heartbeat, and I feel so bad for dragging him into my own mess. I feel guilty—God, so excruciatingly guilty—and at the same time, all that regret burns away because my father fuels a kind of rage I didn’t even know I had in me.
Fear takes over, silencing me completely, and I can’t stop shaking.
“I said put that down,” Adam repeats dryly, not moving a muscle.
“You take your job way too seriously, Mitch.” Dad cracks up a sinister, fake smile, the gun still pointing at Adam.
