Page 144 of Restitution

“Don’t worry about me. They think I’m dead, so I’m off their radar. All the bombs are disarmed. But I missed two,” he says, gesturing to the havoc. “They snuck them in through the tunnels running under the manor.”

Kade takes my hand. “We need to get the fuck away from here. We can take Ewan’s boat.”

“No,” Tobias replies. “You all need to go to the gates.”

“I’ll take Luciella to Russia,” Base says. “She’s pregnant, and I’m not having her near any of this. My grandfather will keep her safe if he knows she’s carrying his next heir.”

“You fucking—” Tobias drops his gun and grabs Base by the throat, lifting him off his feet. “You better not have got my daughter pregnant. Are you trying to get her killed?”

Base kicks his legs, choking, until Tobias tuts and drops him.

“Fuck. Do you need to be so aggressive?” Base asks, rubbing his neck and turning pale. “We obviously didn’t fucking plan it.”

Tobias blinks and stares at his daughter. Something warm flashes in his eyes, but it quickly vanishes when we hear people yelling inside the manor and more gunshots firing. “Go to the manor gates and make sure you’re all placed into protection.”

His son frowns. “And leave you? No. I just got you back. Besides, Bernadette will be sending backup soon. We need to go. Now.”

Kade turns in the direction of the boat, my palm firmly against his, our fingers locked together. I’m limping, barely managing two steps before Tobias says, “Stop.”

We turn to look at him.

Tobias rubs the back of his head. “This is retaliation from one of the underworld leaders you angered. Don’t worry, he’s dead now.” He waves his hand towards the burning manor. “And that woman is in no state to cause this.”

Kade frowns. “How do you know?”

An evil smile crosses Tobias’s face. “Because, son,” he says, raising both brows, “I have Bernadette Sawyer.”

42

KADE

Before my dad was arrested, sentenced to life imprisonment and shipped to the institution to live out the rest of his days, he was an evil bastard who made my mother’s life hell just by trying to love her the right way. It was a love he couldn’t feel, so instead of giving her what she needed, he drove himself to insanity and destroyed himself, her and her life – everyone around her included.

To say he fell into obsession is an understatement. Dad didn’t want to lose her and wanted her to feel like she had a functioning boyfriend who didn’t rely on medication to survive who he is. So he did the one thing that broke him, causing a domino effect that made him spiral intosomeone else.

He stopped taking his medication. Stopped attending therapy. Never showed up for his support groups. He started drinking.

His obsession turned deadly.

The story ended right here, at the dog shelter I bought over not long ago and put in Barry’s name – why are we here?

Stacey stirs in my lap, and I brush my fingers through her hair as the streetlights vanish and we’re coated in darkness. “Where are we?” she asks in a rough voice.

“Somewhere safe,” I reply then look at my dad through the mirror. “I’d love to know how you knew to come here.”

“Does it matter?”

“You rose from the dead and are driving tomybuilding,” I add, my fingers still lazily brushing through Stacey’s hair. “Yes, it matters.”

Dad shrugs and keeps driving up the path. His eyes are sunken, probably from lack of sleep or from the stress of whatever the fuck he’s been doing while pretending to be dead.

I was shocked when I saw that he was alive, but now, I’m starting to get pissed the fuck off. I mourned this motherfucker for months, and the whole time he’s been shacking it up here, sleeping in one of the new beds, using the shower room and eating from the kitchen while I was losing my fucking mind thinking he was gone.

Jason is dead, and so was my dad, and all I can feel is rage towards him when I should be thankful – when I should still be hugging him and telling him how happy I am that he’s here. I want to do that, but only deep down. I’ve watched my mother drink herself to sleep night after night because of how broken she was about his death; I can’t just forget that.

I grit my teeth and look at Stacey, who shakes her head at me. “I know what you’re thinking,” she whispers, wincing a little when she tries to move her bruised legs. “He wouldn’t have wanted to blow his cover by trying to reach out to you.”

Her voice is quiet, but I know my dad can hear her.