Page 6 of Vengeful Devotion
“With my help,” Vivi adds.
Simone rolls her eyes. “Right. Can’t forget your involvement.”
“Why are you always such a bitch?”
“You’re both bitches,” Juliette quips.
Not willing to be the referee in one of their constant arguments, I leave the kitchen. Their voices follow me out of the room, rising over each other. I don’t have the energy or the willingness to deal with them today. The three of them are in their twenties but still fight like they’re teenagers.
As I’m walking to my wing of the house, I hear something in my father’s office. I peek in to find my mother crying over his urn. My chest constricts. Guilt floods me as it does every time I see her or my sisters mourning him. I walk into the office. Sometimes, I swear I can feel him here. Smell the cigars he used to smoke. There’s so many memories here. This office was where I became a man at fifteen by painting these gray walls red.
“Mother,” I whisper, squatting down in front of the blue velvet chair. “Are you okay?”
She looks up at me, wiping the tears from her face. “I’m fine, baby. Just a rough morning.”
“What happened?”
She shakes her head, her dark hair falling over her face. “I can’t believe it’s been a year since he left us. Have you had any luck finding his killer?”
“No,” I lie.
The guilt in my chest grows, staining my soul. As the boss, it’s my job to put a bullet in the skull of the man who killed my father. But it turns out that job is much harder to do when the killer is a man who shares our family name. A man I grew up with. A man I barely know anymore. My brother.
“I know you’re trying your best, Dec. You’ll find him.”
Her words hit me in the gut. Fuck, I’m a terrible son. But how the hell am I supposed to tell her that her own son pulled the trigger? That would wreck her. More than my father’s death has. I’ve known since my father’s memorial and I’m still coming to terms with it. I can’t do that to her. This is my cross to bear and I won’t put it on her. My mother’s phone pings, interrupting my thoughts.
“They need me at the non-profit. There’s a new intake. Speaking of that, I have a charity dinner in a few weeks. I want you to be there. No excuses. I’ve given you plenty of heads up to make arrangements.”
“I can’t.”
She gives me a pointed look, and I already know I won’t be winning this argument. It doesn’t help that the guilt is eating away at me, making me want to give in to her demand.
“Declan Patrick, I won’t take no for an answer. You’ve missed every event I’ve hosted since your father died. You will be at this one. Understand?”
I give her a silent nod, unwilling to admit defeat.
“Good. Now, go clean up. You’ve got blood on you.”
She rises from her chair and goes to leave, patting my cheek goodbye. The weight on my shoulders gets heavier every day. My eyes burn with tears. But I refuse to let any fall. I won’t allow myself to grieve. I hate Warren for doing this to our family. He’s the entire reason my mother has to walk the Earth without her soulmate. The reason that my hero is gone. He took him from us. But I hate myself more. Warren is the reason my father is gone, but I’m the reason my father will never have justice. The reason my mother will never have closure. The reason my sisters go to bed every night wondering who did it and why. That’s on me. All because I can’t man up and give my brother what he deserves. What he gave my father. Two bullets to the chest.
CHAPTERTHREE
Gemma
The bell dings again.The sound makes me want to cry. Every ding of that bell means new customers. New customers mean new ways to fail. This job is so much harder than I thought it would be. I’ve been here for five days but it’s not getting any easier. It’s barely noon and I’ve already broken three plates. Aggie has been incredibly patient with me, but I can tell that her patience is running out.
“Keep moving, Gemma,” Aggie calls, pushing her blonde hair back. “No slacking on the lunch rush.”
Right. It feels like I’m walking over shards of glass with the way my feet are aching as I walk towards the newest customer. I dig my notepad and pen out of my black apron.
“Hi, what can I get for you?”
“Are you on the menu?”
My skin bristles. The worst part of this job isn’t the aching feet, the exhausted muscles, or the long hours. It’s the number of men who hit on me on a day-to-day basis. Aggie tells me to lean into it. That it’s good for tips, but after what I’ve been through, I just can’t.
“Are you on the menu?” he asks again, his country accent showing.
