Sweet Hatred
Chapter 261: Reckless

Chapter 261: Reckless

The heat behind my eyes flared. I wanted to rip the cigar out of his mouth and shove it down his throat if I could.

But I didn’t move. Not with those guns. Not with Kaleb and the others behind me.

"Did he tell you," the man said slowly, "how he used to help us move product through little church donation boxes?"

"Shut the fuck up," my father growled, low and sharp.

One of the boss’s lackey turned and punched him hard in the stomach.

He hit the floor, coughing.

The bag dropped with a thud.

"¡Con cuidado, idiota! No queremos que se muera todavía," the boss said in a scolding tone to the guard.

I didn’t speak Spanish fluently. But I understood enough.

(Be careful, idiot. We don’t want him dead yet.)

My father wheezed, clutching his ribs, but he didn’t look at me. I could see the sweat dripping from his forehead. His whole body was shaking now.

Michael shifted closer to Olivia protectively, Lily still in his arms. Olivia whimpered. The kids were waking.

The boss turned back to me.

"That’s the thing about old men with skeletons," he mused clicking his tongue. "They always think they buried them deep enough."

He paused, smiled wider.

"But eventually... the bones find their way back up."

My father coughed, blood dribbling down his lip as he tried to speak again.

"I already told you," he wheezed, voice raw. "I have a portion of the money—i did what you wanted me to do."

Crack.

Another fist slammed into his side, brutal and deliberate. He folded slightly but didn’t drop this time. His jaw clenched as he gasped through the pain and forced himself upright again.

"Leave them out of this," he said, eyes flicking toward me, toward Olivia and the kids. "They have nothing to do with it. This is between you and me—"

The boss finally exhaled long and deep, flicking his cigar ash with a little twist of his fingers.

Then he spun on his heels and moved.

A slow, almost bored step forward.

He didn’t look at my father.

Not yet.

Instead, his head tilted toward his men, and with a quiet, commanding lilt in Spanish, he muttered,

"Suéltalo."

(Let him go.)

The men obeyed instantly, stepping back, their guns still aimed, but no longer touching him.

The boss still turned his attention to me, even though he didn’t quite face me, his focus remained forward as he approached my father.

"You know," he said, his voice smooth, almost reflective, "there was a time I was kind. Stupid, maybe. But kind."

His eyes flitted to my father now, sharp and cold as steel. "I welcomed this man into my business. I offered him protection. Trust. Money. Friendship."

I watched him walk.

Measured.

Purposeful.

Like a judge heading to the executioner’s block.

"But instead of paying me back," he continued, "your father decided he was too good for all of it."

I swallowed.

Something about the way he said your father, like he wanted the shame to stain me too.

"He ran. Disappeared. Took my money—a lot of it—and tried to start over like a fucking monk. And not just that..." He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "He leaked every contact. Every route. Every warehouse blueprint I ever gave him to the men who wanted my head."

He chuckled lightly.

"That little betrayal alone cost me a fortune in blood and bodies. And now..." his voice dropped. "After five years of hunting him like a ghost... I find out he came back to the same pathetic little city. Crawled back to the wife dying of cancer. The children who wish he was dead. Pretending he’s changed. Pretending he’s a good man."

The air grew cold. My heart beat like war drums in my chest.

I wasn’t even sure what I felt.

Hurt. Confusion. Rage. Exhaustion.

Validation?

All of it twisted inside me, tangled like wires sparking from too many directions.

Was any of this true?

Had he really...

"Wait—" I tried to speak, voice hoarse.

But I didn’t even get to finish the sentence.

Because by the time the word left my mouth, the boss had stopped right in front of my father.

And without flinching,

He punched him. Hard.

The sound was wet.

Brutal.

My father’s head snapped sideways, body jerking from the force before he crumpled to the floor with a grunt, hand reaching to steady himself.

The boss didn’t move. He just stood over him.

Silent.

A god before a worm.

And me?

I stood there frozen, every breath caught between screaming and breaking.

He didn’t stop.

His fist kept slamming down, again and again, and again... until my father’s face was folding like paper, caving in under the pressure. There was blood. So much of it. It coated the boss’s knuckles like a second skin, dripped in thick globs onto the wooden floor. And still, he kept going.

I couldn’t breathe.

Olivia screamed. Shrill. Raw. Michael shielded her, pulling her against his chest and pushing her face into his shoulder as if that could hide the sound... the horror.

But I saw it all.

I couldn’t look away.

The snapping of bones. The way his cheek collapsed. The choked gurgles slipping from what was left of my father’s mouth.

Only when the man’s fist trembled from the effort, dripping crimson like warpaint, did he finally stop.

He leaned over my father’s limp, twitching body, and in Spanish, he whispered like a lover:

"Debería despellejarte vivo frente a tu familia... para que vean lo que le pasa a quien me traiciona."

(I should skin your family alive in front of you... so you can witness what happens to anyone who crosses me.)

My stomach turned to stone.

Something deep inside me dropped. I knew, right then, that this wasn’t just a threat. It wasn’t posturing.

He meant it.

He was going to kill us.

Maybe not all at once. Maybe not right away. But clearly none of us were leaving this house whole.

My limbs locked. My lungs refused to expand. Where the fuck was Sylas? Or Kael? Had they seen my messages? Heard my voicemails?

I should’ve waited.

I should’ve brought more people. I had thought this was just my father alone.

I was so fucking reckless.