Chapter Eighteen

Tobias

Age Twenty-Four

P arlay.

I read somewhere it takes three lines of solid income to make a man rich, six to make a man sustainably wealthy. Between the last few years of keeping tabs anonymously online—due to Dom's help—as campus bookie at HEC, the scraps of profit I take from Antoine's legitimate business deals, my cut of white-collar crimes my brother has spearheaded, and the fluctuating income from the garage—that makes four.

A rich man, I'm not. And sustainably wealthy is where I need to be.

As of late, we give almost as much as we take to keep our consciences clean and our hands heavy with loyalty. We're gaining strength in numbers, but it's not enough. Money and stature are the last hurdles I need to clear to get myself into a position to take Roman down.

With my masters earned from one of the best business schools in the world—as soon as I have the capital to start my company—I can declare war on my unsuspecting nemesis.

So, parlay, it is.

Today's the day, and I've been on this board far too long .

It all comes down to a wildly expensive bet. A gamble capable of setting me free of being a slave or victim to any other man's whims.

At this point, I stand to lose as much as I gain, having paid as much for the intel as I have to gamble with, but that's the nature of the beast. Money has always been an obstacle for me, a necessary means of getting from point A to point B. And while some men let it drive them, let the abundance or lack of it corrupt or destroy them, I refuse to become a slave to it. Instead, I'll obtain enough of it to wield its power, its sway, to open avenues and help level the playing field for men like me and my brothers, our parents, and whomever else's fate rests in the hands of men like Roman Horner.

With the clip of the price tag, I'm ushered into the jacket, the last stroke of the brush on the picture I'm intent on painting. Giving myself a once-over in the floor-length mirror, I school my features to hide my excitement as the tailor looks on, brushing the shoulders of my jacket.

"Not bad for a poor mixed breed who grew up in a dilapidated shithole in Nowhere, North Carolina."

With the furrow of his brows, it's clear my words are lost on the tailor who speaks little English, but he nods in agreement to please me. "Cela vous va très bien." It suits you.

Sorting through the bills from my pocket, I tip him and move to step off the pedestal. He stills me, kneeling and running a mildly soiled cloth along the top of my shoes. When I pull out another bill in gratitude, he waves it away, and I nod in thanks. "Merci."

Making my way out to my waiting car, I light a cigarette and inhale deep, exhaling some of the threatening stress of the morning. Surveying the daybreak sky, I spot a flock of birds flying low in the milky clouds, wings extended in perfect formation, mimicking each other's flight pattern, a silent communication amongst them along the wind. The sight of it makes me envious.

This. This is what was missing in the order back home.

Frères du Corbeau (Brothers of the Raven) was my stepfather's pipe dream. A dream to lead the revolt against the greedy leaders of corporate America—namely Roman Horner—to fight for the good of the common man.

The idea was good, but there was too much miscommunication amongst them—along with too many opposing beliefs and ideas about how to proceed in taking him down. And not one of them, my papa included, had enough backbone to move in any direction. They never could get it together enough to evoke any real change or take action against those who continually fucked them, especially Roman. The only person in that group who had any real gumption to carry out anything was Delphine, but she dulled her razor's edge with the drink over time.

It all comes down to my brothers and me.

I refuse to indulge in a poison of any kind that will dull my edge.

Whether it be drink or a woman, or any other threatening vice, I'm determined to abstain. I refuse to let any personal or frivolous need weaken me. When I think of the bigger picture, it's much easier to maintain.

I can make Papa's dream a reality while seeking justice and ending Roman, or I can backslide like the rest of the originals, becoming useless, another voice in the void.

Throughout the years I've been in France, I thought it a possibility on more than one occasion that I would fail. That this whole thing was pointless. But doubt breeds insecurity, and insecurity chips away at confidence, and I have no fucking room for it. It's time for bold moves. It's time for execution.

With that needed mental clarity, I slide into the back seat after my borrowed driver opens the door, mildly surprised to see his boss waiting for me. The driver, Luis, gives me an apologetic glance before leaving me with Antoine, who does nothing to mask the smug pleasure on his face.

I should have seen this coming.

"Allais-tu m'informer de tes projets aujourd'hui, Ezekiel?" Were you ever going to inform me of your plans today, Ezekiel?

I tug the cuff of my shirt. "My plans today don't include you. "

"I could have helped."

"As I've told you, repeatedly , I don't need your help."

"But you borrow my car, my driver?"

"You offered it to me when I need it. And please don't insult me by acting like I haven't earned some courtesies for the years I've spent working with you."

I've practically rebuilt his army of thugs from the ground up using common sense they desperately lacked and implementing tactics I've studied for years. Unbeknownst to Antoine, I've been using his organization as a guinea pig to work out any future kinks for my own.

"Un tel manque de respect. Tu pensais qu'un costume cher ferait de toi un homme digne?" Such disrespect. You think an expensive suit makes you a worthy man?

I assess his suit. "Definitely not."

Before my blatant insult can sink in, I lift my chin to Luis waiting in the driver's seat. "Longchamp. Merci."

Antoine pauses his cigarette halfway to his mouth as we race away from the curb. "What business do you have at the horse race?"

I shrug, loving the feel of the expensive shirt linen on my skin. "Maybe I'm interested in the sport." His soulless black eyes narrow. "Business that doesn't concern you and has nothing to do with our arrangement."

He thrusts his index finger at me, the cigarette burning low between his fingers. "You are testing my patience, Ezekiel."

"I don't answer to you."

"Tu le feras si cela affecte mon business." You will if it affects my business.

"Tell me where I have not held up my end of our agreement, and I will gladly explain myself."

For years I've played shepherd for him, using his underground reputation to both grow and educate his army, herding to gather my own intel while siphoning less than a quarter of his recruits.

What Antoine doesn't know hasn't hurt him in the slightest, but it's greatly helped to elevate me to the position I want to be in. But the more I do for him, the less satisfied he seems to be. With my stint in France coming to an end, he's been searching for any possible angle to get his hooks in me. He wants me as his second, and it's never going to fucking happen.

"I have looked out for you, Ezekiel, have I not?"

"We've looked out for each other."

"Why do you feel the need to exclude me from something that's beneficial?"

"Who says it is?"

"Do you consider me a fucking fool?"

"I consider you a partner."

Reaching into his small bar, I pour myself a splash of gin. I'm already sweating, and I need to calm my mind. This is a setback I didn't fucking need so early in the day.

Antoine scrutinizes me carefully. He has a mistress in Pigalle, close to where his tailor is, and I know that's where he just came from. He reeks of cheap rose perfume. On the other hand, his wife is one of the most beautiful women I've ever laid eyes on. It's painfully apparent she's deeply miserable with him. Despite her efforts to get my attention, I haven't laid a hand on her, nor do I intend to.

Often—especially when I visit their home in Montmartre—I catch her staring at me. The attraction is mutual, but there is zero benefit in acting on it. She's in her late twenties and desperate for any man to take her away from the man sitting across from me. Sadly, I won't be that man, but I do catch Palo, Antoine's most trusted lieutenant, staring at her the same way. One day, I may be able to use that in a play against him.

Emotions, namely love, can make even the strongest man weak, giving opponents leverage. Leverage I never intend to let another have on me.

"Partners share information."

"Fine. I plan on hiring my own car soon to save you any future imposition."

"Ah, you're intent on being greedy?"

"It's greed that has you badgering me. "

"I have shared with you."

"You've given me scraps, small ends."

"Only because you refuse to partake in any real business." He keeps his voice even despite his temperament, a trait I've adapted myself.

"Because your real business is destructive. I've explained this repeatedly as well. I won't be in France full-time much longer."

He scoffs. "And you'll go back home to what, work in Roman's factory?"

Doing my best not to show my growing hatred for him and the fact I revealed far too much early on about my predicament, I wave the threatening emotion away and toss back the rest of my drink before speaking. "Don't trouble yourself over it. I'll find my own way."

When the car stops, I shift in my seat to get out. When the door opens, he grips my wrist. Glaring at him, I let the dare in my eyes speak for itself.

In an hour, I'll become financially independent, which will negate most of my use for him. I won't let him take this from me. Tilting my head, I drop my gaze to the gun in his holster.

I've made myself invaluable to him. I've proven myself time and time again over the years. He wants ownership of me, and he's not getting it, but the threat of losing me just might be enough to end my life. For now, he's still got the upper hand. Toying with me, he mulls over the decision, weighing the pros and cons of discarding me as he has so many other of his men, before unlatching his fingers.

"You're beginning to bore me with your laughable nobility," he mutters, averting his gaze before sliding back in his seat and righting his jacket. "You're no better a man than me."

"Always a pleasure, Antoine."

*

Tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap.

On the other side of the caged counter, the man stills his progress looking pointedly at my busy fingers. Averting my eyes, I rip them out of sight as he produces the life-changing piece of paper. I snatch it from where it rests and stalk away, neck heating.

Walking up to the bar, I place my order. When my gin is delivered, I stare into my drink as a familiar blanket of unease begins to seep in. I'm completely and utterly alone in this gamble.

One. Two. Three.

One. Two. Three.

Taking a healthy sip, I glimpse the mirror behind the bar, briefly admiring my suit before lifting my gaze to the clock above it. Five minutes. A woman sitting alone catches my eye at last glance, and I look to my right to meet her smile. Dark hair, cunning brown eyes, and beneath her form-fitting dress, a body built for punishment. Her painted lips lift further as I drink her in, and she reciprocates, her eyes trailing from my lips to my Italian leathers. Briefly, I imagine doling out that punishment, but grab my drink from the bar instead, seeing her eyes dull when she reads my intent.

"Vous allez laisser une femme boire seule?" You're going to leave a lady to drink alone?

"Veuillez accepter mes excuses. Je vous assure que si c'était un autre jour..." Please accept my apology. I assure you if it were any other day ...

Her eyes rake me with determination.

"Je garderai la dernière gorgée pour la fin de cette course. Peut-être qu'alors vous vous joindrez à moi." I'll save the last sip until after the race. Maybe then you will join me.

I pull a bill from my pocket and nod to the bartender to grab her another.

With the lift of her lush lips, I read the promise in her eyes that says she'll be waiting.

A step away from the distraction, I shift my focus to the paper safely tucked in the inside pocket of my jacket and amble outside. Veering from the bulk of the crowd, I take a vacant seat scanning the track just as my pulse elevates and my mind begins to race uncontrollably.

Stay calm, Tobias.

An overwhelming and familiar feeling engulfs me as I do my best to keep my shit together.

Two minutes.

Glancing around the horde of people, I'm all too aware of the leg up I've garnered in knowing what thoroughbred will cross the finish line. Keeping my eyes forward, I try not to think of the others who might've placed similar bets on the wrong horse—their own situation as dire as my own, and bat away the guilt.

One. Two. Three.

Sweat beads on my temple as I survey the track, searching desperately for something, anything to steal my focus and rob my errant thoughts. Inevitably, I come up empty knowing exactly what I need. Unable to battle the urge any longer, I pull out my cell phone and press send, on the verge of explosion. He answers on the second ring.

"Hey, brother."

"Dom." It comes out in a whisper full of emotion. I clear my throat of it and still find myself unable to speak.

I'm fucking terrified.

"What's wrong?"

"I just needed..." You. I need you. I need to remind myself why I'm doing this. For Mama and Papa, for us, for our future.

"Talk to me, brother." All bullshit aside, he's been with me, for better or worse, every step of the way, trusting me, believing in me. In taking this risk, I could blow it all. Even with the guarantee I paid for, there are too many variables. There's too fucking many.

Panic seizes me fully as I still my fingers and swallow the contents of my drink in two gulps.

Maybe I should have shared this secret with him. Maybe I should come clean about my involvement with Antoine and my fears that our ties will never be severed without dire consequences.

Maybe I've gone about this all wrong and made one too many risky moves so early in the game. But this fear, I don't want for him. This burden and the consequences that may follow—I'll shoulder alone.

"I just want to talk." Commotion breaks out in front of me as the announcer begins to alert everyone to the start of the race.

"Bullshit. Tell me what's going on." The clank of tools lets me know he's working at King's. Being a mechanic is a trade he enjoys immensely, and for that, I'm happy, even if it's just another way to get by for the moment. With his intellectual aptitude, he's got a bright future with or without me. He'll go far, even without my guidance. I respect him immensely for the man he's becoming, and he's only just cracked his knuckles, barely scratching the surface of his potential.

"Dom, just..." I close my eyes, "stay on the phone with me."

"What did you do?"

When the gates open, the onslaught is immediate, a thousand stinging needles in my chest. It's painful, but the gin circulating makes it bearably less so. Keeping my eyes trained on the number on the side of my horse, Dom remains silent, and I know it's because he's listening intently to the barrage of noise surrounding me, searching for clues. After a few seconds, he speaks up.

"What's our number?" he asks softly.

"Seven," I reply. The number of years I've been away from what's most important to me. The number of years I've been living dual lives. Years of hunger and humility, years of metamorphosis that changed me from a revenge-seeking orphan to a common thief, to barterer, brother, mentor, student, teacher and now... ?

"What did you bet?"

"Our future."

Cringing, I get nothing. Not a cross word, not even a harshly exhaled breath. It's absolute trust, and it pervades me with an unimaginable feeling and a hell of a lot of guilt. It's on the tip of my tongue to whisper an apology for abusing it when I see our horse fall slightly behind. I can barely breathe with the intensity of emotions running through me .

"Tob—"

"Just this once, please. I need my goddamn brother," I whisper, tightening my hold on the phone.

"I'm here," he replies hoarsely, a rare fear in his voice. But it's not fear for his own well-being, and that guts me all the more.

Swallowing, I curse my emotions as more remorse surfaces on how I've wronged him. Of how I left him in that fucking cockroach-infested house with an unworthy parent, to fend for himself, to man up before his time. Just once, I want the sacrifice to be worth it. I want him to feel like the sacrifice is worth it.

Our horse takes the lead in the last quarter mile, and I can feel the hairs on my arms start to rise.

"Brothers first," I whisper.

"Always brothers," he replies softly, a second before our horse crosses the finish line.

Shock and adrenaline shoot throughout my body as I exhale a steady breath, and Dom speaks up. "What did we win?"

It takes several seconds for the panic to give way to exhilaration. Liberation gives a bounce to every step I take as I make my way back inside, forgoing my waiting date at the bar to collect my winnings. "Exodus."

*

" And look at you now, King, just a regular Joe doing everyday shit," I mumble, dumping two extension cords into my cart before pushing it along the aisle. "No bad guys to hunt down, not a suit in sight to negotiate billion-dollar deals with."

While I might have schemed my way into becoming a millionaire and smooth-talked my way out of death on more than one occasion, earning the naked trust of my former enemy's daughter might be the deed to outdo all others.

Our progression is slow all right because, day by day, she's fucking killing me gradually.

Twenty-one days she's held out on me, on letting me in.

Twenty-one days she's denied me entrance fully back into her heart .

Twenty-one days I've fucked my fist.

Twenty-one days of aching when I hold her while she sleeps in neck-to-ankle flannel pajamas.

Twenty-one fucking days.

Being the tactical man I am, I decided it's time to come up with a plan.

An average Joe's plan. Innocent enough.

Wine, dinner, seduction, connection.

Daily, she's managed to curb me at every turn. But somehow, someway, I will succeed in wrestling her back into some sort of submission.

Resisting the urge to punch the happy-go-lucky fucker who passes me, I smack a double stack of toilet paper into my cart.

All we need is the right setting to share one perfect night, and for that, I'm pulling out my entire arsenal.

It's all wrong, this space she so easily puts between us... we need something, something I can't pinpoint to get us back to where we were. When my phone rumbles in my pocket, I scramble to answer, hoping it is some sort of sign, anything to help me get past this crossroads.

"Talk to me," I wheeze out, glaring at another happy husband who takes one look at my face and turns to walk in the opposite direction.

Sean chuckles in greeting. "Just checking in, man. How's it going?"

"How's it going ?" I can hear the contempt in my reply. "How's. It. Going?" I grit out. "Well, at the moment, I'm just crossing off the honey-do the Mrs. left for me and picking up toilet paper. And tonight, after I've scooped up enough dog shit, she might just reward me with a kiss goodnight after another day of pointless fucking living."

Collective laughter echoes from the other end of the line, and I press the phone to my ear, speaking through clenched teeth. "You have me on speaker?"

"Sorry, man, couldn't resist. "

"Fuck you all," I snap, as peals of laughter ring out at my expense.

"Don't hang up. We're here for you, man," Russell belts out through a dying chuckle. "And don't get the cheap shit, chicks hate that."

I stare down at the label and second-guess my choice. "It's Charmin."

"You're good," Sean pipes up before I hear the door of the garage close.

"All right, talk to me."

"She's bleeding me dry, Sean. My tolerance, my patience, all of it."

"It's only been a few weeks. Hang in there."

"I have no idea what to do with myself here. I have no idea how to be... normal ."

"There is no such thing, and you know it."

"Oh, but there is—" I briefly scan the store and lower my voice—"and I'm living amongst them." I pick up a box and scrutinize it before tossing six like it into my cart. "But don't worry, I plan to hammer and fucking nail my way back in by the stroke of midnight."

Another extended chuckle on his end.

"I'm so glad I amuse you."

"Right now, I fear for you both. Just do yourself a favor and get out of a public place. It's not safe for others. It's just going to take some time to adjust."

"Adjust." The word is acid on my tongue. "That's a word she's used multiple times." The cashier eyes me as she rings me up, and I toss two bars of chocolate onto the counter before shoving half of one in my mouth and chewing slowly, daring her to judge.

"Have you been honest with her about everything ?"

Canting my head away from the cashier, I lower my voice. "I haven't even been able to get past the rehash since she left Triple. She's... impossible."

"Just give her more time, and try not to think about what's going on here. Do yourself a favor and keep your business brain out of it. We've got it covered. Just concentrate on her."

I let out a pained groan. "If I concentrate any harder—"

"I know, man, I know. Tessa is just as fucking hard to crack when she gets pissed at me. Just do what you can. I'll call you back soon."

"When?"

"When, what?"

"When will you call me back?" I snap, swallowing down another mouth full of chocolate.

I don't miss the laughter in his tone. "You need a when?"

Again, I turn away from the cashier, who's doing a shit job of hiding her smirk. "Yes, Sean, I need a fucking when ."

"I'll hit you up tomorrow."

I end the call and turn to pay the cashier.

"Flowers?" she offers a suggestion, nodding toward the buckets of bunched stems nearby. Though it's a typical gesture, it's not a bad idea. The woman loves a garden and spends endless hours doting on her own. Grabbing every single flower in the bucket, she nods in approval as I hand her my card.

"Thank you."

"If four dozen roses don't help, honey, you might want to think about something shinier."

"Noted."

The wheels of my shopping cart squeak on the uneven pavement beneath me as I haul out my load of supplies to the Camaro. Once unloaded, I close the trunk and pause when I see a familiar car parked a few rows down. The same rental car I spotted back at the gas station.

Not a coincidence.

Glancing back toward the store, I see a man standing, waiting at the side of the entrance, his eyes averted.

My phone rumbles in my pocket, and I lift it to see a late warning.

We're on him .

I type back a quick reply.

Let me handle it.

Pushing my cart back toward the store's receptacle, I dial Cecelia.

"Hey."

"How is your day going?" I ask.

"Well, considering I only got here an hour ago, okay so far. What's up?"

"I did call for good reason." The irritation of her remark combined with the arrival of a new stalker is coming through my call, and I rip at my hair in annoyance before I lighten my tone. "A very good reason."

"Oh?"

The man casually inches to the side of the store, nearing the corner as I take my time, my gait slow and unassuming. Being on the phone helps the illusion. It's when I shove my cart away from me, crashing it into the others, and shift directions heading straight toward him, that I know he's as green as they come. It's fucking insulting with his skill set that he was the one sent to me.

"Date night," I say, picking up my pace.

"Date night?"

"Yes. Date night," I grit out, "a weekly ritual by couples to maintain intimacy. It's a thing."

I can hear the smile in her voice. "I'm aware."

"I'll go on a date with him," Marissa chimes in the background.

"So, we can have one?"

"What did you have in mind?"

"I'll take care of the details."

The asshole turns the corner, his body tensing as if he's ready to take off. It would be laughable—if I weren't so pissed.

"Ne me fais pas te courir après. Tu ne vas pas aimer quand je te rattraperai." Don't make me chase you. You won't like it when I catch up.

He pauses his walk. He's listening. And he's listening because he understands .

French.

Goddamnit.

"Tobias, who are you chasing?"

"An imbecile who took my shopping cart."

"Small town, Frenchman, first impressions are important. You just got here, don't make yourself a menace."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Hot on his heels, the man leaps into a sprint, and I burst into motion.

"Date night will be at home. Until then, Trésor."

After hanging up, I catch up with him quickly, my long runs paying off in spades when I grip the hood of the asshole's jacket and yank him off his feet at the side of the building. Airborne, he yelps before he lands flat on his back in a thud on the concrete. After disarming him, I drag him behind me, the material of his slicker good aid in helping with the effort while I keep my eyes peeled for passing cars.

Much to my delight, in a town with a population shy of two thousand, there isn't a single car coming in either direction—a perk of small-town living. My birds are already waiting behind the store in an idling sedan as I come into view, pulling the idiot behind me who grunts when I hit a patch of uneven pavement.

"Je t'ai dit de ne pas courir." I told you not to run.

Once we're safely out of view, I kneel down and search him for ID and credit him for having the good sense to leave it back at whatever hole he's occupying. I hit paydirt when I retrieve a cellphone from his jeans.

"Now we speak in English."

Silence.

"I know who sent you. I have everything I need from you already. Tell me why I shouldn't kill you right now?"

No response.

I cock his own gun before pressing it to his temple. "You've got one more chance to answer me."

"I have a message from Palo. "

"No, you don't." It's then I know how he found me.

And that Palo is most likely dead.

Fuck.

Dread filters from the center of my chest, circulating through my veins as I keep my mask in place while the implications of what's next pummel me from within.

Pulling the man to stand, I lean in on him, pressing all of my weight against him. A pained whimper comes from his lips.

"It's broad daylight, and you have the audacity to try and shadow me? Did you not know who you were coming after?" I click my tongue.

"You were not supposed to know I was here."

"Passons au fran?ais parce que tu ne peux pas être aussi stupide. Tu devrais travailler ton anglais." Let's switch to French because you can't be this stupid . You should work on your English.

"Je déteste l'Amérique. Je ne reviendrai pas." I hate America. I will not return.

"Tu seras enterré ici si tu ne coopères pas." You will be buried here, if you don't cooperate.

"Je devais signaler où tu étais et avec qui." I was to report where you were and who you were with.

"Et tu l'as fait?" And have you?

Fear flashes in my incompetent assailant's eyes. It's too fucking late.

And that's the crux of the situation. As it always has been. If I had remained alone, there would be nothing to report. This would have been another day at the office in my old life, but my circumstances are different now, and the stakes are much higher. This morning, I had time in abundance. Time to try and help her understand my reasoning for the decisions that led me to the place I'm in. And for the last three weeks, I took for granted the freedom of being an average Joe.

"Have you sent pictures?"

Another nod, and I do my best not to snap his neck as I keep him pinned and lift his phone.

"Quel est le mot de passe?" What's the password?

He rattles off a four-digit code, and I check his messages to see an active thread with a familiar area code. He's been reporting for the last two days, his most recent text sent minutes ago to which he got no response. I make a note of the frequency of their texts and pocket his phone. The image of the snapshot of Cecelia at the entrance to her café has rage taking over.

Using my elbow, I black him out to keep from getting rupture marks on my knuckles for Cecelia to inspect. Once he's unconscious, the two birds I trusted on watch, Oz and David, quickly drag him into their back seat. I scan them closely as they nervously load the car, each of them glancing over their shoulder to me. Both are dressed in plain clothes, with muscular builds, but Oz has a mohawk, which is eye-catching and distinctive in this town or any fucking other.

These are Russell's most prized recruits?

He should know better.

Just as they close the door on their unconscious passenger, I step up to them both, seething.

"Why was your text too late?"

Oz is the first to speak. "We weren't sure—"

"You weren't sure ?" I clench my fists to keep from lashing out. "Captain Obvious has been here for two fucking days ." I look between them. "I don't give second chances. Not at this post. ID him and bleed him of information until you're sure he's working here alone . Call Russell, get six more birds here, two to replace the two of you. I want them here today . I don't give a fuck how. He's in your custody now and your responsibility until I say so. Let me down on this," I snarl, "and you're fucking out ."

Clipping wings isn't something I threaten often, especially when they've earned their ink, but this is a major fuckup, and one inked men should never make.

They nod, offering zero excuse, no doubt due to the murderous threat in my eyes. Once they're back in the sedan, I search for anyone who might've seen the spectacle before taking off back toward the Camaro. Behind the wheel, I feel the needles start in my chest and run my hand over my jaw.

The sun beams through a raincloud as a new arrival grabs a cart at the entrance of the store. He's probably here to pick up a power tool, nothing more, and carry on with the rest of the day—an average Joe.

Envy shoots through me as he strolls in with weightless shoulders.

For the first time in my life, I had a sense of normalcy, and I wasted it feeling sorry for myself. I had the freedom to live as an everyday man, no matter how temporary, and I didn't realize how precious it was to me until it was taken from me only minutes ago. It would be so easy to ignore the distraction, the impending threat, to ignore the danger a little longer, in an effort to win her back fully. But as of this moment, I'm running out of time.

Doing my best to slow my racing thoughts, I try to concentrate on the task at hand.

Date night.

She deserves the effort, it's what I promised her, and more than that, it's what I need in order to proceed with her. We have to get back to some semblance of us before we can take on any more. I won't let anything get in the way of more progress. One last secret, and for no other reason than to buy me time to win her over before we weather another storm. Between fury and worry, I lift my phone when it rattles with an incoming message.

Russell: I know I'm sorry isn't enough, man. I'm sending two straight from Tyler.

I don't respond because sorry isn't enough. These are mistakes we can't afford to make anymore. Not this late in the game.

Once again, a decision has been made for me due to uncontrollable circumstances. Turning the ignition, I press my head to the steering wheel and take deep inhales.

I'll sort through the threats as they come. I have a day or two at most to come clean, and I'm going to use every second to make it right .

"Putain de fils de pute!" Motherfucking son of a bitch!

I slam my fist on the dash and immediately regret it, smoothing my hand over where I struck, thankful there is no evidence.

Chest tightening, I exhale slowly.

I've got a book to read, and a dinner to cook. I can do this, for her. The seize in my chest threatens to take over as I put the car in gear and gun the gas, peeling out of the parking lot.

I just need a little gin first.