Chapter 1
My stepfather splashed a bucket of dirty water all over the car I'd just spent three hours cleaning, then kicked me hard and told me to start over.
I snapped and threw the towel right in his face—and that was when the garage door opened. My real father walked in. And everyone in this city knew exactly who he was.
I was twelve years old.
I'd been out in the garage since early morning, scrubbing my stepfather Richard's fancy sports car.
My hands were raw and wrinkled from the soap and water.
My back ached from bending over.
But the car was finally spotless.
I stood back, wiping sweat from my forehead, proud of what I'd done.
Richard walked in, beer in one hand, cigarette in the other.
He circled the car slowly, pretending to inspect my work.
Then he stopped.
He kicked the bucket of dirty soapy water.
The whole thing tipped over.
Brown, sudsy water splashed all over the clean car.
All over my legs.
All over the floor.
I stared in disbelief.
"Missed a spot," he sneered, kicking me in the shin. "Do it again. And this time, do it right."
Pain shot up my leg.
I bit my lip to keep from crying.
I'd been putting up with this for two years.
Ever since my mom married him.
Ever since my real father disappeared and everyone said he was dead.
But today was different.
Today something inside me broke.
I grabbed the sopping wet towel from the bucket.
I balled it up in my fist.
And I threw it.
Hard.
Directly at Richard's face.
It hit him square on, soap and water splattering everywhere.
His cigarette flew from his mouth.
He stumbled backward, sputtering and wiping soap from his eyes.
"You little bastard!" he screamed, wiping his face. "I'll kill you for that!"
He lunged at me, fists raised.
I flinched, ready for the pain.
But the blow never came.
Because at that exact moment, the big garage door started to open.
It rumbled upward slowly.
Sunlight flooded in.
And a man stood there in the doorway.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Wearing an expensive black suit.
His hair was slicked back.
His face was cold and hard.
But when his eyes landed on me, they softened.
Just for a second.
Richard froze mid-lunge.
He stared at the man in the doorway.
And the color drained from his face.
Because he knew who this was.
Everyone in this city knew who this was.
Vincent "The Viper" Moretti.
The most powerful mafia boss in the state.
The man who had supposedly died in a fire three years ago.
My father.
He stepped into the garage.
Two more men in black suits followed him in, standing like statues on either side of the door.
My father's eyes moved from me.
To the dirty water all over the car.
To the red mark on my shin where Richard had kicked me.
To Richard himself, still frozen in fear.
"What is going on here?" my father asked.
His voice was quiet.
But it carried more weight than any shout.
Richard swallowed hard. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
"I... I was just... teaching the boy some discipline," he stammered, trying to sound brave and failing miserably.
My father's eyes flicked to the towel on the floor.
Then back to Richard.
"By kicking him?" he asked softly.
Richard opened his mouth to answer.
But my father didn't wait.
He looked at me.
Really looked at me.
"Are you hurt, son?" he asked.
I stared at him, my throat too tight to speak.
I nodded.
My father turned back to Richard.
And his face changed.
The softness was gone.
Replaced by something cold.
Something terrifying.
"You touched my son," he said, his voice like ice.
Richard backed away, trembling. "I didn't know... I didn't know he was yours..."
"Everyone's child belongs to someone," my father said, stepping closer. "And this one belongs to me."
He signaled to his men with a flick of his wrist.
The two bodyguards stepped forward and grabbed Richard by the arms.
Richard started screaming. Begging.
My father ignored him.
He walked over to me.
He knelt down so we were eye to eye.
He reached out and gently touched the bruise on my shin.
"I'm sorry I took so long to come home," he said, his voice thick with emotion.
I looked into his eyes.
The same eyes I saw in the mirror every morning.
"Are you really my dad?" I whispered.
He smiled—a real, genuine smile.
"I am," he said. "And I'm never leaving you again."
He stood up and took my hand.
His hand was big and warm and strong.
"Come on," he said. "Let's go get you cleaned up. And then we're going to find your mother."
As we walked toward the door, I looked back over my shoulder.
Richard was being dragged away by the two men.
He was still screaming.
But my father didn't look back.
He just held my hand tighter.
And as we stepped outside into the sunlight, I saw rows of black cars lined up in the driveway.
Dozens of men in suits standing at attention.
All waiting for him.
All waiting for us.
But just as my father opened the door to his car, a woman came running out of the house.
My mother.
She saw my father.
And she screamed.
Not with joy.
May you like
With terror.
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