Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

M atteo

I sigh with relief as my mother and grandfather leave. Rafe chuckles as the door closes behind them. Damn, he looks different. He's no longer wound so tight I worry he'll have a heart attack before he hits fifty.

Javi laughs. "Why the hell did you do that without warning us?"

"What, I wasn't supposed to ask if Mom was finally going to divorce Dad now that she and Abuelo are getting biblical? It's a valid question, considering they're now three years in. Especially since she and Dad are more than twenty years legally separated." I shrug.

"Yes, it's a valid question. However, you only asked so they'd leave. That's what makes you an ass." Rafe sends a dark eyebrow up. "You want us to leave too? It was a long flight from Baltimore to home."

Typical Rafe, calling me on being an ass while giving me an out for my behavior. I always knew he was going to be a great father. Since he was one to us growing up, even though he was only two years older than me. He was a better father than our actual father.

I shake my head. I'm not ready for them to leave—to be left alone with the emptiness.

Am I home? My mother kept going on and on about me being home. It's why I said what I did, aware it would send her running. I wasn't sure how I felt yet about being in Dallas after more than twenty years gone.

Over the years, there were times I thought of Dallas as home. Only because my family is here. After almost fifteen years in Baltimore, it's hard to think of anywhere else as home.

"You sure?" Javi asks as he eyes me.

Running a hand over my face, I nod. I'm up at the window that looks out over an enormous pool and a large green grass area residents were assigned and could use for a garden, but no one uses for much of anything.

I shake my head again. "I should be asking you for the number of a therapist, not…"

"Talk to me." It's an invitation spoken softly yet also a demand. The iron hand in the silk glove Rafe has down to an art. "You left Johns Hopkins weeks before you called me to tell me you were coming back to Dallas."

I shouldn't be surprised he knew. The last thing I want to do is talk about it. And maybe that's why I should. "I lost another one. Nine years old, the sweetest thing you've ever had the misfortune to encounter as a doctor treating her for leukemia. As cancers went, her case should have been a walk in the park—a gloomy as fuck park, but nothing I couldn't handle. I did everything right. And she still died. I'm standing over her calling time of death, and I didn't feel a thing."

Even now, the memory of that day is fucking with my head. "Almost fourteen years I've been doing this. My thirty-ninth birthday was two days before she died. She was the thirty-ninth patient I lost. I couldn't feel a thing. No sadness, no anger at myself for losing her. Not a damn thing… I was positive it would come back. It had to. I needed it to do what I do."

Rafe and Javier share concerned looks I pretend I don't see.

"Except it didn't come back." Unease is still in me at the lack of feeling, even now. "After a week, I gave in to what I had known in the back of my mind as I walked away from the hospital—I was done. I sent an email with my notes on my cases and told them I wasn't coming back. Then I laid in bed for a week while I tried to figure out what to do next."

"Just a week?" Javi's eyebrows are up. "It's okay if it was longer than a week."

"It might have been a little longer than a week," I admit.

It was more like a day in bed and two weeks on the couch trying to figure shit out. "I was lost on what is there for me if I'm not doing oncology. Since the only reason for me to be in Baltimore was Johns Hopkins, it didn't feel like there was anything left for me there. I'm hoping a new environment will jumpstart the desire for me to do something."

"You don't have to do anything. Not a fucking thing." Rafe is firm. "What you did day in and out is going to leave cuts no one can see. If you never want to set foot in a hospital again, there's no shame in that. If you want to come by the office and see if you're interested in having one of your own in the building, we'll welcome you with open arms. And I have the number of a great therapist."

The idea appeals as much as running a cheese grater over my face.

Rafe doesn't miss a thing and chuckles. "I get it. I'm sure Abuelo would love it if you took over the running of the charity he started. I don't know if you were aware it went from focusing on breast cancer to a broader stance on women's general health. The women's center here in Dallas is also an option. I've heard rumblings about the current administrator. I know they would welcome you immediately. It's a warning, so you can brace yourself for him to ask. His focus has moved to mom, so they've contacted me for direction and attention."

I consider it. "Are you sure you aren't soft asking me to ensure they no longer contact you?"

He chuckles. "Maybe."

"I'll take those calls. It might help fill the days."

"Come on, let's cut into the enchiladas my wife had me bring you. I had to beg her to make more so we could have some for the house. She's an awesome cook." Javi licks his lips as he opens the refrigerator.

I sit down at the table, separating the living area from the kitchen. Javi waxes lyrical about his wife and two kids. Although I came back to Dallas for Rafe's wedding a few years ago, I couldn't get time off for Javi's wedding last year since there was so little warning—only a week before the day.

Rafe gets in on showing me pictures. I've yet to meet their daughter, Elena, or their newest daughter, Stella. Carrie has sent me pictures of them over the years. I have better text conversations running with her than I did with Rafe. She kept me updated on what was happening in our family, like my mom and Abuelo, Rafe taking the weekends off, and when Ava appeared in Javi's life.

Guilt hits me. How had it been so long since I was with my family to see what it became? It's been years since I came home for Christmas or any holiday. Since my patients were so young, I hated leaving them alone on holidays—some of them didn't have parents who could spend time in the hospital with them.

About eight years ago, I got caught with a patient who wasn't stable enough for me to leave for longer than a day, let alone the week off I planned. Once I went into the hospital that Christmas Eve and saw the listless, sad faces of my patients and others in the pediatric oncology ward, my conscience wouldn't let me leave them at Christmas. At the time, I didn't regret missing out on time with family to be with my patients. Now I wonder what it cost me in my relationships with my brothers.

Rafe's glance at his watch is only the flick of his eyes. "Go on. Carrie is probably wondering where you are." I order Rafe. "You too. Leaving your wife alone with a new baby." I mockingly shake my head at Javi. "You'll be lucky if she lets you back in."

"Whatever, she's going to yank me through the door so fast my head will spin." Javi is glowing.

After they're gone, I go onto the massive rooftop deck to look over downtown Dallas. I'm grateful Javi is letting me stay here until I figure out where I want to live. My mother made it clear she wished I was staying with her, not in Javier's place. I love my mother, but the idea of living with her, even briefly, is not something I could bring myself to do.

Do I want a condo or a house? If I had a house, do I want to fill it with anything? A wife, maybe a couple of kids.

Over the years, my relationships were mainly with nurses and other doctors. They understood I didn't have regular hours, and making plans often ended with me getting called away. The women were selected because of convenience. We both knew it was nothing more than the need to scratch an itch.

I wasn't willing to give up time for anything besides my work. A wife meant getting home at a decent hour. A baby meant midnight feedings. A child meant parent-teacher conferences and dance classes or soccer games. If I gave time to them, there wasn't enough to give to my patients.

Do I want what my brothers have? I don't know. It doesn't feel like I know anything right now. Rafe said I didn't have to know. Except the lack of a plan—a purpose—is fucking with my head. I'm hoping like hell once I create a new purpose, the feeling will come back.

Matteo

Scanning the restaurant, I find Rafe and Javi in the corner of the elegant dining room. The hostess guides me toward them. Javi's eyes are hopeful. Rafe's are concerned.

"What do you think?" Javi prompts me the second my ass hits the seat. "You want to take over running the center?"

I shake my head, and his eyes dim. Rafe doesn't look surprised. "I'm not ready to sit behind a desk. And that's what running the center would require."

"But it helped you recognize what you want." Typical Rafe, it's not a question.

"Yes. I want to open a clinic like the women's health center—for everyone. We can do X-rays and fill some prescriptions at no cost. I also want to include mental health so it's more like a community health center."

Javi loses his smile. "You're going into a shitty area, aren't you?"

"Where else do they need regular health care more? Ninety-five percent of low-income clinics are a revolving door of doctors going in to get their internship out of the way before moving into a practice. Patients do better with regular doctors who give a shit about them, not someone coming in to get their time and get out."

Rafe sighs. "You're going to fund it completely and work fourteen hours a day, seven days a week, as penance for leaving oncology."

His words hit hard because they were exactly what I admitted to myself it would become. The hours were going to be eight to eight, and, of course, we would be open on the weekend for greater availability. It would be my duty.

I must make up for not doing the work of the life I left behind. I'm a billionaire because of my family's wealth. I didn't earn that money on my own. Therefore, I needed to pay for it by giving back in other ways. It wasn't enough to give away what I could—my grandfather restricted what I could donate to charity. He knew I would give it all away if I could. Besides, giving it away was too easy.

"It doesn't have to become that." I force the words out.

"No, it doesn't. You paid every due there could be. It's okay for you to stop and enjoy life." Rafe almost sighs the words.

"If I stop, I don't know if I can get myself to begin again," I admit.

Amy

The blow sends me off my feet. Pain radiates through my whole body, and I fight not to vomit. I'm not sure if the urge to be sick is because of him hitting me in my stomach or if the pain is that bad. I can't breathe through the pain, and I'm grateful because if I do, I'm positive I'll be sick.

"What have I told you? You stupid, fat bitch. Keep the brat quiet. Fucking waking me up and shit."

Layla screeches in fear. An unintelligible pleading for comfort I can't give her.

I watch helplessly as he turns on her. No. No . He can hit me all he wants, but not her. She's only six months old—a baby. Fear sends a shot of adrenaline through me to get to her first. I cover her with my body. "I'm sorry. Please. I'm sorry. I'll keep her quiet."

I feel him looming over us.

Please. Just this once, answer a prayer. I'm begging a god I lost belief in decades ago as I clutch Layla to me.

With a final curse, he swipes a rough hand at my head without any of the power of his previous blows. He learned not to hit me in the face, not because he cared if anyone saw my bruises—the bone hurt his hand with how hard he hit me.

"Stupid bitch." He mutters. "I'm going to Jack's to get some sleep. His woman knows how to keep her kids under control. Clean this place up before I get back."

Squeezing my eyes shut, I don't move until he slams the door behind him. He was going to do it. Danny was going to hit Layla. If he had, he would have broken something in her small body. At almost six feet and a former construction worker—only not working because he hurt himself at work—he's strong with thick meaty hands.

It's almost every day now. He used to only hit me once or twice a week. But over the last few months, Layla couldn't breathe without him losing his temper and hitting me. I tried so hard to keep her quiet, to please him. I've gotten so stressed out I've dried up, unable to breastfeed Layla the way I wanted to. The way I needed to because formula is insanely expensive.

Layla pats my face with tears in her own eyes. How could I have been so stupid? This is what I grew up with—a father who yelled and screamed and hit my mother. Then he moved on to me and my two older brothers. I promised myself I would do things differently. That I would never end up with a man like my father.

For the first two years, there was the typical male lack of empathy, like forgetting birthdays, not getting me anything for Christmas, and never cooking or cleaning, but he always half-heartedly apologized and promised to do better. The way he would tease me about going to school and how hard it was for me to read and study with dyslexia. He would ‘joke' about what I ate and my weight.

The abuse started slowly, only after we moved in together. I didn't see it as abuse. After all, it was minor things like the joking and teasing that became meaner—mocking and belittling my weight and dyslexia, throwing a dish when he hated what I made for dinner. Gradually, there were fewer apologies and more accusations I was too sensitive.

But I was never afraid of him.

We were both shocked when he slapped me for the first time. I wanted to leave then. Except I was seven months pregnant, and he was on his knees begging for forgiveness.

I also had nowhere to go or money to do it with. I hadn't found a job after our move to Waco. He told me that I didn't need a job and didn't want me working when the baby we planned for came anyway. The reason we moved to Waco was so he could earn more money for me to be a stay-at-home mom, he reminded me.

There was no family for me to run to. My older brothers fled our home and didn't look back after my mother died from an overdose when I was fourteen. I had few friends in the small town we left. We weren't close enough I felt comfortable asking them for help. I had no friends at all in Waco.

Stupid. I shouldn't have stayed after the first time he hit me. I should have paid attention to how quickly he stopped caring about me or the baby after he found out it was a girl.

At the time, I was so excited. All I was focused on was my pregnancy and preparing for the little girl I always wanted. I'd heard about dads not being excited over having a girl and then falling in love with them when they were born. Of course, he would love her when she got here.

Then Danny got hurt at work when I was six months pregnant. There was no money coming in, so I had to go back to waitressing.

I worked up until the day before I went into labor. He drove me to the hospital, dropping me off at the ER entrance. His promise of going in after he parked the truck was a lie. He never came.

Even when the nursing staff called him to tell him that I needed an emergency cesarian and wanted him there with me because I was terrified. My calls and texts were ignored for the almost three weeks that I was in the hospital with an infection. Layla should have gone home after only a few days. But since he wouldn't come get her, she stayed with me in my room.

Danny wouldn't even pick us up to bring us home. One of the nurses took pity on me. She gave me a ride home and the car seat and baby carrier she no longer needed.

I was terrified he wouldn't even let me into the apartment. Thankfully, my key still worked.

When he walked in, he was surprised to see me but acted like it was any day. He shrugged off my questions and ignored Layla.

From the day I got home, the verbal abuse was constant. He didn't want me breastfeeding because it was gross. But we couldn't afford formula, so I hid with her in the bedroom—keeping her out of sight. He treated Layla as though her presence offended him.

The first time he hit me with intent was two weeks after I was home from the hospital. He ordered me back to work because there was no food in the house. I was astonished he thought I could work. There was no way. I was recovering from a cesarian and in pain. He'd taken my pain pills and threw a bottle of Tylenol at me when I begged him for them. How could he tell me to go to work?

The words were barely out of my mouth when he backhanded me. I was stunned, unable to speak or even move. Then he did it again and again until I was on the floor. None of it made sense. It wasn't happening, it was a bad dream.

Except it wasn't. He was standing over me, threatening me with a worse beating if I didn't go to work the next day and bring home money and something to eat. Or I could leave, pack up my shit and the brat and get the fuck out.

All I wanted to do was do exactly what he said: pack up our things and leave. But I had nothing and nowhere to go. As I lay there, I promised myself it was the last time he would hit me.

It was a promise I couldn't keep, but I made another promise to myself: I would go back to work and, with the money I earned, leave him. Except he took all my money. The minute I walked out of the restaurant, he demanded my apron.

I've managed to squirrel away nine hundred dollars, hiding tips in my bra—I didn't need to worry about him seeing me taking my bra off. Ever since I was six months pregnant with Layla, he thought I was too fat for him to touch.

I've taken it all these months and would have continued to endure it until I had enough money to leave. What I have saved is almost laughable. I have no idea how far I can go on it. I wanted more money to escape with. The plan was for two thousand.

Except I don't have time. He would have hit Layla. Deep down, I know next time he will hit her.

Danny didn't care about her. Sometimes, I think he hates her. He's never held her once. I don't understand it. She's a good baby, calm and smiling, only crying when she was hungry or needed her diaper changed. I had to pay a girl next door to watch her when I was waitressing because I was too scared to leave her alone with him.

Rocking Layla, all I can think is that I'm failing her. I'm failing at everything. In a week, I'll be twenty-seven. The only good thing I have to show for my life is Layla.

I spot the keys to his truck on the table. It's more than ten years old, with almost a hundred thousand miles on it. The truck is in my name because when he wrecked his after a night of drinking, I was the only one who could be financed for it. When my car died, there was no money for me to finance another. Yet I was never allowed to drive it—not even for a late-night run to get formula or diapers. Despite the age and miles, I know it could get me out of here, away from Danny.

Layla cries in fear when I put her down on the couch. For the first time, I ignore her cries and run to the bedroom. Packing up her stuff takes less than ten minutes. My things take about the same time as I jam everything into two suitcases. I grab the miserable nine hundred dollars. It's not enough, only there's no more time left to get more.

Putting the truck in gear, I squeal out of the apartment complex and head for I-35. I don't know where to go. Right takes me south to Austin, left takes me north to Dallas. Indecision has me slowing down. Fate decides for me. There's a wreck on I-35 South, so I turn left, north to Dallas, and pray it isn't worse than what I've left behind.