Chapter 2

ChapterTwo

BRYCE

I fling the door open and stare at my son. He’s not a large man, but he’s inherited my height. At six feet- three inches, his short girlfriend looks much like a child. His arm possessively holds her to his side like a woman clutches a designer handbag she can’t afford. Something flashy to show the world that he’s somebody.

Paul’s always been weak that way, unable to stand on his own merit. More interested in projecting the idea of what others might see as desirable. The fucked up part of my world, the parts I loathe, all wrapped up in my progeny. I could use the excuse that when I had Paul, I was a kid myself, sixteen and a father, but the reality is that my father’s genes are dominant in his veins. My old man would be proud to witness Paul, his grandson, the same monster he always wished I’d be.

I’ve seen Paul on and off through the years, but when he needed me the most, I was locked up in Bedford Hills for bashing a guy’s head in after he shot one of my buddies outside a club in Hell’s Kitchen. I got ten years for excessive force. What was I supposed to do?  Give the asshole flowers for killing my buddy and putting two bullets in me? I’ve still got the scars to prove it.

When I got out, Paul was fifteen, and the damage was already done. He’d been left to his own devices, and his mother was good at using my criminal record to keep him from me. We only reconnected when he started showing up in my circles, trying to make a name for himself on the streets.

So I did what any father worth a lick would and kept my eye out for him to ensure his smart mouth didn’t get him shot or dead in a ditch. I was too soft on him because of my damn guilt, which did him no favors and created something far worse. A fucking wife beater.

Even as a kid, Paul used to bully others. But if anyone who presented a fair fight stepped up to him, Paul would tuck his tail between his legs and run. Just like my father, picking on those he could easily overpower but pissing his pants when he had to step up to someone who could bash his head in without even breaking a sweat.

Remorse churns in my gut because I’ve got no one to blame for how he turned out other than me. I used to ignore Paul’s behavior. I want to say Julie made it hard, and though she did, I could have done better. I could have stepped up, but ten years behind bars and my fear of the system kept me from being there.

I used to tell myself I didn’t know shit about being a father anyway. It wasn’t like I had an old man who could teach me. I learned on the streets, and so would he.

As he got older, Paul involved himself with some sadistic kids, all as corrupt and cruel as him. Messed up kids who liked to torture small animals to see how long they would wail in pain before they finally died. A band of losers united in their inferiority, desperate for power and willing to get it in many repugnant ways.

There was one glaring difference between Paul and me. I did the shit I did to put a roof over my mother’s head and food on our damn table. Paul did what he did because there was a demented darkness in him that got off on hurting others. He never needed to be out hustling in the worst parts of New York. He could have been comfortable living in a brownstone in Brooklyn, with all the necessities of life provided for him without him lifting a finger.

The reason Paul chose this life was because he genuinely enjoys causing pain. It gives him a god-like euphoria.  I hurt others out of necessity. Paul does it for gratification.

At one point, when I witnessed how far he’d go, I tried to help him, but he ran off to his no-good mother, and she stood in between me getting him help. Who’d believe my word over hers? She was a reputable therapist, a pillar of the community, and I was nothing but a gangbanger with a criminal record.

Paul was Julie’s golden boy, her perfect blessing. She pretended he was perfect even though he was far from it.

I glance at Isla’s face. She’s staring at the floor, a perfectly submissive woman, quiet, obedient, and pretty. Just like my mother with my old man. My gut twists as her face morphs into my mother’s. The sadness in her eyes is a door that traps me in the nightmares of my past. ‘You’re meant to make me look good, Mary. I better not hear a peep out of you. No one wants to hear what bitches have to say.’

Isla’s gaze is downcast, focusing on the marble tiles outside my penthouse door. She doesn’t make eye contact with me, always meek and quiet, letting Paul dominate every moment of the conversation.

“Come in.”

Paul pushes past me with no regard for pleasantries, not even a simple hello.

Isla, however, brushes her long hair behind her ears and smiles shyly. “Hello.”

“Hope you brought your appetite. Greta thinks three people means feeding an army.”

Greta is my housekeeper. A sweet sixty-year-old woman who’s been with me since Paul was in his late teens. I employed her when I thought Paul might come to live with me, but my son didn’t like rules and never saw me as anything more than a connection to the underworld.

But I like having Greta around because she makes my apartment into a home, something I never had. She does all the things for me that I did for my mother. She cooks, cleans, and occasionally gives me motherly advice, something I never got as a kid. My mother was a good woman, but all those years with my father broke her to where she couldn’t take care of herself, let alone me.

“I need to talk to Greta about coming to work for me. She’s a great cook. She might teach Isla a thing or two in the kitchen.” Paul pulls Isla to him, his fingers digging into her flesh, almost like a warning.

My fingers itch to show him exactly how powerless he is. A few blows would ensure he understood where he fits in the food chain. I grind my teeth, trying not to knock my son flat on his ass. “I’m sure Isla is a wonderful cook.”

“Bitch even burns water,” Paul remarks snidely. He grips her jaw and brings her face to his. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart? You’re useless in the kitchen, aren’t you? It makes me wonder why I bother to keep a woman who hasn’t got a clue about how to satisfy her man.”

She winces, and my eyes travel to his firm grip on her biceps. Paul’s fingers dig aggressively into her biceps, and Isla looks like she’s in pain.

“You okay, Isla?”

Paul smirks at me. “Of course she’s okay, Pop. Isla is a good woman. She knows her place.”

Knows her place? What kind of diuretic nonsense is spewing from my son’s mouth? Isla’s supposed to be his partner, not his damn dog. “She can talk, Paul. She isn’t a child.”

Paul laughs, a pathetic wheeze of a sound meant to make him appear strong, but all it does is remind me of Dr. Evil petting his hairless cat. “A child might be easier to deal with. I’m telling you, Dad, if you don’t keep these pretty girls in their place, they’ll ruin your life.” He pats me on the back with his free hand. “You know all about pretty girls, don’t you, Pop? Mom sure did a number on you, didn’t she?”

I grit my teeth, trying to keep calm. “Your mother wasn’t that way because she was pretty.” I was a stupid, horny kid, and she had a great pair of tits. She was a thirty-two-year-old woman, and I didn’t stop to consider how messed up it was that she wanted to fuck a screwed-up fifteen-year-old who idolized her. I was dumb and convinced myself I was in love with her, but now I realize it was misguided transference. She was someone who appealed to my mommy issues and my raging teen hormones. An adult who cared about me, and she was smoking hot. I was so eager to make her happy that I did anything she wanted, including fucking her for months. I should’ve wrapped my dick. That mistake cost me dearly. I got saddled with a degenerate moron for a son and that bitch on my back for years.

Isla’s dark eyes glance between Paul and me. Her small hands fist at her sides. She’s nervous. Her hand shakes as she unclenches it and places it on Paul’s chest. She’s trying to do damage control. “The food smells divine, doesn’t it? I know how much you enjoy Greta’s cooking.”

He taps her cheek gently. “What have I said about interrupting men when they’re speaking?”

Isla quickly drops her eyes and mumbles, “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” I snap, instantly regretting my tone when she jumps. I don’t know what Paul’s done to this girl, but it stops now. I step toward her and remove all the anger from my tone. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Angel. There’s no need to apologize.”

Paul’s mouth turns into a sinister smile as his fingers dig deeper into Isla’s skin, turning her flesh red. “Pops, don’t bother yourself with that nonsense. Isla here has been housebroken. She knows her place, and that’s how we like it.” He grips Isla’s chin not so gently and brings her face up to his. “Isn’t that right, baby?”

She holds the position for a moment as if contemplating what to say. Agree or stand up to the blatant misogyny spilling from Paul’s mouth like unchecked diarrhea.

“No.” She whispers the word so softly that I’m unsure if she even said it.

“What did you say, Isla?”

She doesn’t respond. She’s on the ground in a flash from the force of Paul’s backhand. “I thought we talked about stepping out of line. Wasn’t it clear this afternoon?” He cups her cheek, trying to look concerned, but he’s simply examining his property.

Bile rises in my throat. Paul is rabid. He needs to be put down.

My hands ball into fists, my jaw ticks, my shoulders straighten, and I brace my weight between my feet. I’m ready for a fight. It doesn’t matter that my blood runs through Paul’s veins. I have never stood by and let a man disrespect a woman. I’m sure as fuck not about to start now. “Take your hands off her, Paul.”

Paul turns to me, a sneer plastered on his face. His ice-blue eyes stare daggers at me, and my cobalt eyes fire missiles back. The little punk thinks he’s got the upper hand here. Unlike my worthless son, I don’t bully women. He thinks I won’t snap his neck because he’s my son, but he doesn’t know I killed my father for the same thing. I don’t give a fuck if he is my kid. He’s a piece of shit, and the world would be better off without him.

“What are you gonna do, Pops? Fucking nothing, just like Mom when she took me away from you.” He thinks I didn’t take care of Julie. She sheltered him so much, yet he’s under the delusion that he’s some big mob boss. Untouchable.

I smile, thinking about the look in Julie’s eyes when I covered her face with her lover’s blood. She thought I’d moved on, but she never stopped taking advantage of kids after me. A young boy, sixteen years old, found me and asked for help. Told me what that vampiric bitch did to him, and I swear it was the same story I had held onto for twenty-plus years.

So I did for the kid what no one did for me. I put a child predator down. Made it look like she’d run off with her lover and disappeared to some island. In reality, I chopped up the bitch and dumped her in the Hudson. I just wish I’d put her down years ago. Maybe if I’d killed her sooner, Paul wouldn’t have turned into a useless piece of shit.

But right now, my son needs a hard lesson he’ll never forget.

“You fuck around, Paulie boy, and you find out.”

Crack. That right hook used to put men flat on their asses. Paul stumbles back, letting go of Isla. My arm snakes around her soft stomach, and I push her behind me, using my body as a shield between her and my furious son.

Paul rubs his jaw. “You don’t know who you fucked with, old man.”

I move toward him, and he nervously steps back. Typical piece of shit coward, bullying a girl but about to piss his pants when it comes to a man. “No, Paulie-boy, you don’t know who you’ve fucked with. You laid your hands on a woman? Who are you? You sure as hell aren’t my son. I never taught you to be a piece of shit.”

“Better a piece of shit than a pussy. You didn’t keep reins in on my whore mother, and now look.” He waves his hand around the room. “You’re all alone while she’s off sucking some low life’s dick in the middle of God knows where.”

My fist connects with his nose this time. Blood gushes down his face. “Wanna keep talking, Paulie? I can keep going all night. You think you’re some hot shit cause you beat on women? Let me show you what it’s like to face a man your own size. Wanna man up, Paulie? Or are you going to run off like the little bitch you are?” I take another step toward him, and he flinches as I throw a dummy punch. “Get out of my sight before I beat you until there’s nothing left.”

“Come on, Pop. You’re not going to hurt your only son for some worthless bitch.”

Another punch. This time to his right temple. “Say another derogatory thing about her. Do it, Paulie. I’ve been itching for a good fight.”

“I’m your son.”

“Not anymore. I don’t want anything to do with a piece of shit like you. Get the fuck out of my house.”

Paul looks at Isla. “Let’s go, Isla.”

“Not her, Paul.” I tug at Isla’s waist, pulling her toward me. “Just you. Isla is staying here.”

“Is that what all this is about? You wanna fuck her, Dad? She has a tight little cunt, and I don’t mind sharing her. In fact, I was working on a deal to have some men fuck her for cash. You’d be surprised how many ask about her.”

I lunge toward Paul, and we crash to the ground as my fists connect with his face repeatedly. “Who the fuck are you, Paul? Who the fuck are you?” My voice is loud. The rage I was controlling a moment ago has been unleashed, and there’s no turning back.

Small hands tug at my shoulders. “Please stop. Bryce, stop. You’re going to kill him.” Isla’s soft voice echoes behind me.

I ignore her pleas and focus on my worthless son’s limp body. He’s not dead, but a few more strategically placed punches, and he will be.

I fist his collar and shake him, pulling him up so his face is millimeters from mine. “You’re gonna leave here alone and never contact her again. If you even think about her, I’ll fucking hunt you and put you down. I don’t care that you’re my son, just like I didn’t care that he was my father. Nod if you understand me?”

Paul moves his head up and down once, and I release his shirt, letting him hit the ground with a thud.

I turn to Isla. She’s shaking, and her fingers are nervously intertwined. “You all right?”

She steps back from me and nods slightly.

“I won’t hurt you. I promise.”