“How much?” he asks, his voice sharp, each word cutting like a blade.
I lower my gaze, guilt rising within me, mingling with shame. I’ve never been this reckless, never lost the product before. It feels like something out of a fucking nightmare. Dad always pushed me, telling me I wasn’t doing enough. It was his way of molding me into his perfect employee. That burning need to dobetter, to be more responsible for him, made me the perfect fit for this business.
But I fucked up.
“About ten kilograms,” I murmur, the sound feeling alien to my ears. Whispering is not something I do; Dad claims it makes me appear weak and pathetic, stripping me of authority.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch him raising his arm, his fingers curling into a fist. He presses it against his forehead and leans forward, exhaling deeply—a familiar ritual before he begins. “I’m not a fucking parrot,” he growls through clenched teeth, “but I’m going to ask one last time, and you better speak up, not fucking mumble. How. Much?”
I straighten in my seat, my pants brushing against the expensive leather. “Ten kilograms,” I repeat, louder this time.
He nods to himself, his hand dropping and fingers uncurling in what looks like a moment of restraint. He always does this—lowers his hand and turns his face away, as if he’s letting me think he’s changed his mind.
But I know my dad better than anyone.
His fist strikes the side of my face, jerking my head to the side. One, two, three punches follow, culminating in the sickening crunch of bone as he stops, letting me spit out blood. My skin tingles, swarmed by insects beneath the surface that bring with them a dull ache. The sharp smell of metal blends with leather and expensive cologne, creating a headache between my brows.
“Thoughtless,” he mutters angrily, “irresponsible idiot. Won’t be long before you destroy the last of your brain cells, turning them into a layer of coke you keep snorting. I won’t trust you with this job again. Going forward, you’ll do the only thing you’re actually good at—beating out the information and taking their lives.”
He reaches into the glove box, retrieving a pack of wipes. As he closes it with a sharp snap, an unpleasant vibration sends a jolt through my already aching skull when he tosses the wipes onto my lap without saying a word.
“Clean the windows,” he orders, gesturing at the blood splatters I hadn’t seen. “I don’t want anyone seeing how much of an idiot my son is.”
After leaving school, fighting felt like the only thing I was good at. Actually, it was more like tearing people apart until they were barely alive. The thrill faded fast, and I moved on. Still, I couldn’t shake off one lesson from Dad—it’s vital to know how to protect yourself.
Too bad I could never protect myself from him.
I could crush him—leave him on the floor, his face a bloody wreck, just like he does to me. But when his fists fly, I freeze. Fighting him back is nothing more than a dream I’ve had since I was twelve. I’ve never acted on it, and I don’t know why. He’s the only man in the world I can’t stand up to, and I hate that I don’t know why. Maybe I’m just too fucking weak, exactly like he says.
Ignoring the steady stream of blood trickling down from what feels like every spot on my face, I comply. It’s a routine I know all too well by now. I wipe away the blood, carefully erasing the crimson streaks. My ears ring faintly, but I can still hear the distant shouts of children playing outside. When I finish, I notice two of them running alongside our car—a boy and a girl, their faces lit up with wide smiles. The tinted windows shield me from their view. They appear to be an anomaly, something that doesn’t belong in my world. Their brief moments of happiness evoke a sense of quiet confusion inside me.
What could they possibly be so happy about?
A sharp punch to my shoulder snaps me back to reality. I tear my gaze away from the kids and turn to Dad, meeting the fury in his dark eyes.
“Are you deaf?” he spits, his fingers combing through his disheveled, sweat-matted hair, now streaked with my blood. The moment I step away, though, he’ll restore himself, as always, to that polished, impeccable façade, as if this chaos never happened. I’m constantly amazed by how he reassembles his mask so effortlessly, no matter the mess. “I said, clean your fucking face. You can’t show up at a party like this.”
A frown takes shape on my expression, the movement sending a wave of discomfort through me. I can feel the blood seeping into the creases of my skin, the sticky layer clinging to me. “I thought I’d better head home,” I say while reaching for another wipe and harshly scrubbing my face.
Dad starts the engine, his focus fixed on the road ahead. He ignores me for a moment, his thumb tapping nervously against the steering wheel. I’m surprised at how composed he is. Usually, I can’t move my face or body after a confrontation like this, but today, he hasn’t even unleashed half his strength.
“If it were up to me, I’d lock you in the basement for a few days to think about your behavior,” he says, drawing in a deep breath. “But Chloe needs you at her party. She’ll be upset if you don’t show up. Plus, all your friends are expecting you.”
They’re not my friends—not even close. They’re just people caught up in this business with me, idiots I need to stay connected with in case my dad requires something from them.
But it’s not them that bothers him the most. It’s Chloe. My precious sister, an angel sent from fucking Heaven. Dad ensures that flowers accompany her wherever she goes, attending to her every need. He would kill anyone who dared to touch her or even look at her the wrong way. And if I don’t attend her latest ridiculous party, she’ll be devastated, and that’s something no one can fucking afford.
“If anyone asks, you got into a fight and lost,” he says, his voice dripping with parental authority. That excuse has becometoo repetitive and, frankly, suspicious. “I don’t care if you don’t feel like it. You’re going in like nothing happened, and you’re going to socialize like a normal person. If you need to snort another line of coke, go ahead. Do whatever you want, but don’t fuck this up. If I find out you ruined her party, I’ll come up with something far worse than everything I’ve already done. Got it?”
I throw my head back, snorting the blood that keeps flowing down. I’ll need more than wipes to stop it. “Got it.”
I slamthe car door harder than I intended, but it’s too late for my father to say anything. Call it a small victory, I guess.
Pure, undeniable anger has reached its peak, wrapping my insides in a tight grip. The scorching path it leaves behind makes me feel feral, desperate to claw at every piece of my body. It’s hot and bright outside, as usual, the sun blasting its rays straight into my swollen eyes.
I hate the weather here. Dad expects me to stand out and hold my ground, which means wearing a suit every single day. The layers of fabric make me sweat like nothing else, compounded by the withdrawal I’m feeling now. It’s a never-ending cycle of anger that builds into agony. It feels like I’m burning in fucking hell, one that shows no signs of ending.
I storm toward one of our houses—the one we usually use for pointless parties like this one. It’s a two-story modern mansion, surrounded by palm trees and featuring a large pool in the backyard. The place looks like paradise, but for me, it feels like the opposite.
