There must be something in my gaze that tells Vera I’m not about to back down from the boys and their overprotective stares. As soon as we get home, I’m restarting this argument, setting it on fire and refusing to leave until I’m on my way to playing undercover hooker.

“Listen …” she starts, exhaling sharply and reaching up to run a hand over her shaved head. “I’ve been thinking about this since you came to my auntie’s place. I want to help avenge Stacey. Letting you do it by yourself seems … cowardly somehow. But I’m also not willing to send in any of my girls. I’ll make you a deal: I’ll go if you go.”

“It’s a deal,” I say, reaching out a hand and then shivering as Victor slides his palm over mine, drawing my hand away from Vera’s outstretched one. She snaps her gum at him and narrows her eyes to slits.

“No,” he repeats, and the wicked heat in his voice causes several other people in the crowd to step back as he glares down at Vera with crow-black eyes. “And this is non-negotiable.” My other hand shoots out and snatches Vera’s before Vic can stop me.

“Deal,” I agree, and then I tear away from Vic to go sit with Sara Young. In fact, I move one of the metal chairs right beside her and get comfy. I purposely avoid the stares of the boys as the service begins and the crowd moves in to observe the proceedings.

After this is over, I’m going to get it.

But that’s okay.

Because I already have a plan forming, one that involves the feds, the strip club, and Mason Miller. Cruel subtleties, that’s Havoc’s signature. I’m ready to sign this shit in blood.

Hael Harbin

Blood trickles over my split lip as I run a hand across my jaw, smearing crimson and letting out a low, dangerous laugh that Martin Harbin does not take seriously enough. Swear to god, if I didn’t have fucking pigs watching my house in their shiny police cruisers, I would kill this motherfucker today.

“You want to hit me again?” I ask, standing up straight as blood drips to the front of my white wifebeater. Ironic, considering I’d rather grind up my father into hamburger meat than beat my wife. Well … Victor’s wife. For now. At some point, I’m marrying that girl—whether it’s legal or not. Shit, if this country ever gets its head out of its Puritan-rooted ass and puts polyamory on the ballot, I’ll vote that shit in and take Mrs. Harbin down the aisle.

Because there won’t ever be a different Mrs. Harbin.

I’ve known that for a long time now.

“Do you?” I repeat when Martin doesn’t answer, scoffing at me as he sits down to take off his muddied boots. “Punch your son until he’s black-and-blue all over? You used to love that, seeing me cower. Well, guess what, cowboy, I’m a hell of a lot bigger than you now.”

“Shut your fucking mouth, you little punk,” Martin barks out at me, his confidence level boosted by the presence of the cops outside. With Havoc walking such a thin line, I really can’t afford anymore physical altercations with my old man. That Sara chick is just looking for an excuse to bring one of us in.

“Don’t you dare hit my son!” Marie shouts, clinging to my arm, tears streaming down her face. Her green eyes dart around the room, searching for enemies that aren’t there. She’s never been properly diagnosed, but we’re guessing she’s a paranoid schizophrenic. “On en a après moi,” she murmurs again, and my heart breaks all over again. I lay my hand over hers and stare Martin down as he throws one of his muddy boots against the wall, spattering it with brown.

All of this—my mother’s slowly swelling right eye, the fight between me and my father, the blood streaming down from his nose—over muddy boot prints. Marie just finished mopping the floor and this motherfucker comes in with his dirty work boots on.

“Est-ce que tu peux enlever tes bottes dans l'entrée s'il te plait?”

That’s what she asked him: can you please take your boots off at the door?

“Your son is nothing but a punk,” Martin murmurs, lighting up a cigarette—despite the fact that he knows Marie hates smoking inside the house. This … is why I try to respect my mother’s wishes, even the ones I don’t agree with. This woman’s been through enough: she deserves some fucking respect. “There are cops outside for a reason, right? The fuck you do, son?”

Martin laughs as he stands up, cigarette dangling from his mouth as he looks me over. It’s a menthol, and the smell of it makes me sick. I stare down at him, a good six inches taller than this piece of shit. Guess the universe does work in small favors, huh?

“Protective detail,” I say with a shrug, which isn’t entirely untrue. The old man looks me over like I disgust him and then shoulders past me while Marie lets out another sob, squeezing her green eyes closed. Having Martin in prison for the last decade was one of the best things that ever happened to me and my mother. Even living in the homeless shelter for a while was worth it. Nobody can ever take those memories of Bernadette away from me. “For you. Because if they weren’t here, I’d invite my best friends over for a sleepover.”

“Don’t threaten me with your kiddie gang, boy,” Martin drawls, opening the fridge and tossing leftovers on the ground that he doesn’t like. Glass shatters, Marie’s homemade gumbo ends up plastered on the bottom of the cabinets. And my temper … it amps up with every tense second I have to spend here.

“Ne le provoque pas,” Marie tells me. Don’t antagonize him. I glance down at her, that old familiar anger squeezing my hand in time with her gentle caress. Sometimes, I just get so goddamn mad at Marie that I can’t breathe. Why can’t she just leave my father? He beats her. He kills pregnant young girls after hiring them for sex. He’s … exactly the type of person that would end up on a Bernadette-style vengeance list.

If only … The timing of his release from prison is so unfortunate. Lined up with Bernadette’s list, the rise of the Charter Crew, the flexing of the GMP’s muscles. Killing him should be so easy, but it’s become the most complicated thing in the world.

“Go see your girlfriend,” Marie tells me in accented English, her gaze sympathetic. When I told her about the miscarriage, she smacked me half a dozen times in anger. And then, of course, she cried because she’s Catholic and she has different ideas of what constitutes a baby than I do. Shit, she was devastated for me and Bernie. “But no more hanky-panky, Hael.”

I swipe the rest of the blood from my face and give a wry smile.

“Oui, no more hanky-panky,” I lie, because sometimes a white lie is preferable to telling your maman that you dream about that girl’s painted mouth as she deep-throats your dick. “You either,” I continue, following her down the hall to her room. I hate leaving her here with him, but I also can’t risk being separated from the rest of Havoc right now. One day, he’s going to kill her, I think, clenching my hands into fists.

Part of me wonders if I shouldn’t just do it now, grab Martin by the back of the head and smash his face into the side of Marie’s porcelain sink until it’s stained with red. I could walk outside and surrender myself to the two uniformed officers idling in their cruiser across the street.