FATHER LOOKS LIKE HE HAS SEEN A GHOST.
His face has gone pale white, lips pressed into a thin line, and he’s staring at me as though I am a stranger. Someone he doesn’t know.
And there’s exactly no surprise there.
Because whatever I’ve just displayed and the threats I’ve given — a threat to torture him — are not something your own son would do, unless he’s become a stranger. Which I have.
All because of him.
I have no idea how I should feel about this whole thing. I don’t know if I should feel f*****g angry at myself for being disrespectful to the man who birthed me, per the Bratva’s rules. I don’t know if I should feel happy for acting the way anyone in my shoes would.
But I do know that I strangely like the relief that’s coursing through my veins, making my chest both tight and
