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Every training session I had to fight, he was there. Every birthday. Every Christmas. Those days he was the dad I always wanted.
Now all I’m left with is guilt. I stayed loyal to my father even when he did all this shit to me, maybe even because he treated me like that. I thought I deserved it. That I needed it to become powerful. I don’t think that’s true anymore. My father could have loved me like a daughter, and I would have still become the woman I am today.
Nothing good he did will ever make up for the terrors he put my brothers and me through.
And I did nothing to stop it. I let it carry on, which is why Max is dead and why I killed Fabio. I’m just like him. Exactly how he conditioned me. I killed him so I could steal his empire, exactly what he would have done in the same circumstances.
Everything I’ve bottled up for the last thirty years bubbles to the surface. My hands tremble as I hold on to the counter, my legs turning to jelly.
If I fought back years ago, if I killed him back then, Max would still be alive. That’s the worst part of it. It’s too late for this to be meaningful. I wasn’t strong enough to fight.
My brain is making me weak, and I can’t stop it. The fucking slideshow of my life in my head is flicking past my eyes. Even when I close them, I can’t stop watching. When my chest feels like it’s caving in, I gasp for breath.
“Get it together, Gianna,” I hiss.
What the hell is happening to me? This isn’t who I am. Unless I’m dying and this really is it. Karma must have worked lightning speed on me.
I know Colt is sitting outside in his damn truck. He never left. So if I am dying, I know all I have to do is crawl to the door, and that man will fix everything.
The thought of relying on someone else to survive a few weeks ago would have made me vomit, but it brings me comfort now. Not everything is on my head.
Then one word springs to mind. One memory that doesn’t burn me. Cantucci. My grandmother taught me how to bake them when I was five. And when she died, I inherited her recipe book, which is locked down safer than my gold.
The chances of a meat-loving cowboy having everything I need to bake them are slim, but not none. So I get to work hunting.
After sourcing the flour, sugar, and eggs, I am on a winning streak of ingredients. In the far-left cupboard, I find my gold mine. Almonds and honey. Once I shove everything in a pile on the counter, I dig out the scales and a tin that looks good enough to bake it in.
I’d personally have used better quality sugar. But the freshly laid eggs might make up for that. And I always like adding orange zest with the lemon, but I can’t be picky here.
I start weighing out the ingredients and cracking the eggs to separate the yolk from the whites. That emptiness in my chest is starting to rebuild itself.
Maybe this was why every time something shit happened, the next day I always found myself baking. It wasn’t because I was bored. It was something inside of me that needed to heal, and the only time I remember being happy was with my mom and grandma in the kitchen, making a mess and not getting told off for it.
As I’m pressing the lemon against the grater to zest it, I press too hard, and it slips, catching my finger against the metal. The sting is instant, and I shove the cut in my mouth to stop the bleeding.
It’s nothing compared to the aches in my body from my father's boot.
My other hand squeezes around the lemon. Within that second, anything good I felt fizzles, replaced with the guilt, the anger, the embarrassment of realizing my life is a lie.
The first thing to get thrown across the room is the lemon. Then another from the side. I pick up the entire bowl of fruit and toss it against the wall.
I see red. I can taste my own blood. And pure rage filters through me.
The grater goes next. Anything in my eyeline is picked up and thrown. The knife flies through the air and lands in the wooden beam. Next, my coffee mug shatters into pieces against the wall.
My tears are free-falling, and I fall to my knees, staring at the mess I’ve made. The mess I’ve made of his house. The man I’ve hopelessly fallen for, and I don’t know what to do about it. Because every time I feel too much for him, I shut him out.
How long is he going to put up with me when I can’t love?
Can I ever give him what he actually needs? I’m not sure.
With my head bowed, my hands on the floor. I let it out until my chest hurts and my throat is dry. Maybe I was never powerful; that was a lie too. Maybe I am fucking weak.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Colten
She asked for time, not space. I am giving her that, but I ain’t leaving her alone to deal with this. She can try and hide the fact she’s struggling, but no one on this planet with a heart can murder their own father and be okay about that.
