Page 10 of Venom Sweeter than Honey
“I’d like to take you to my therapist—or any therapist.”
That would mean opening said tomb. So, just like the previous hundred times he’s mentioned it, I sidestep the request entirely.
“You should let me work for you again.”
Astor’s expression remains calm. He scratches at his beard.
“My answer won’t change, Levi. It remains, and will always remainno.We made an agreement.”
Frustration—one of the few emotions I have left—is a tight fist in my chest. Even though I know he only has my best interests at heart.
“One that I’ve broken, so you have nothing holding you to it.”
His expression remains placid. “Tell me why you’re so determined to work with me.”
I don’t dare speak aloud every justification I have.
That I’m angry.
That my pent-up rage needs an outlet.
That the part of me who once sat in awe of the world—and all that potentially lies beyond it—is dead.
What has risen in its place is a worrisome hunger for violence. And I want—need—Astor to give me the opportunity to set it free so that I can forge a trail of blood all the way to Boston and back, ridding the world of not only those who killed my father, but all those like them.
And while I don’t utter a single word of this, Astor’s bright silver gaze seems to recognize it all the same.
“There is no amount of violence that will heal that wound, Levi.”
Emotion rises like a tidal wave—swift, merciless, and all-consuming—as his words settle in the silence surrounding us. My burning eyes eventually slide to the sliver of ocean peeking out from behind the floor-to-ceiling drapes. Astor has no idea just how deep the wound runs or why, and he hasn’t pried. Thankfully.
After my mother’s suicide, he didn’t ask too many questions; he simply opened his home and his life to me. Moved me into his palatial Spanish-style villa in Biscayne Bay. It makes the nice, upper-middle-class Boston home I grew up in look like a slum by comparison. And I can’t help but wonder just how far Astor’s reach spreads. I know he has connections to organized crime overseas, so it wouldn’t be too far-fetched to think he might have distant connections to my father’s killers.
I have no other way of finding them short of snooping around Boston and getting myself killed. Perhaps Astor will even help me seek out my revenge.
That idea alone momentarily appeases the ravenous tide inside me.
Astor’s words drag my thoughts back to the present. “There’s a friend of mine I could introduce you to.”
Tension and hesitation line his features, even as a flicker of hope softens mine. “I fear I’m going to regret this, but whatever comes of it has to be better than...”
Astor gestures vaguely at my slovenly appearance. Unshaved, greasy hair, dark circles under my eyes, too skinny.
“... this.”
I probably look like someone in desperate need of rehab, even though I’ve never touched any drugs or alcohol—if only because it reminds me too much of my mother.
I’m not offended by his words. It’s only the truth, and as always, they’re spoken with compassion.
At my silence, Astor heaves a sigh, stretching his long legs and lacing his fingers together behind his head.
Moments pass, and I’m holding my breath before he finally speaks.
“He works at the Department of Defence, but before that, he was a Detachment Commander for Special Forces...”
What the fuck?
“... You want me to join the military?”
