“Linda wants Madeline to learn self-defense. She thinks it’s important. Given the way her father died, I don’t blame Linda for forcing her daughter into the class.”

“And you said you were going to help? What the hell were you thinking?”

“What was I supposed to say? ‘Sorry, can’t help you since I’m the one who killed your husband.’ I didn’t have many options, Jett.”

“I guess you didn’t,” he said, turning to look at Madeline. She was leaning against a wall, wiping her forehead with her forearm and catching her breath. “She’s kind of adorable.”

“I fucking know,” I admitted. “What do I do?”

I was at a loss. I had no clue how to handle this situation. I needed a lifeline. I needed someone to tell me how to handle this, because right about now, I couldn’t breathe, let alone figure out how to talk to Madeline.

“Do the right thing,” Jett answered. “Swallow your demons, step up, and teach the girl. What happened in your past was not your fault, but you have a responsibility now to see it through.”

Jett was right. I had a responsibility, and it was to take care of Madeline. If that meant pushing past the bile that rose from the mere thought of forming a bond with this little girl, then I would.

“You’re right,” I said while pushing past Jett and heading over to Madeline, who was still leaning against the wall with her arms at her sides and her head pressed back.

“Hey,” I said while squatting down to her level.

“Hi there, Mr. Kace,” Madeline said, perking up. “These gloves are heavy.”

“Well, they’re the wrong size. I told you they wouldn’t work for you.” She’d insisted on wearing them.

“I just wanted to wear the ones you were wearing when you demonstrated. You looked so tough.”

A numbing tingle started to crawl up my back. I can do this, I repeated over and over in my head.

“To get tough, you have to start from the beginning. How about we take off the gloves and put on the little hand-wraps instead,” I suggested. “Then we can work up to the gloves.”

“Those gloves are black.” She crinkled her nose. “Don’t you have pretty ones?”

I looked over at the hand-wraps and shook my head no. “Sorry, kiddo. I only have black ones right now, but I will see what I can do for you for future classes. How does that sound?”

“All right.” She flashed me that toothless grin, melting me on the spot.

For that smile, I would have given her the fucking world.

We walked over to the gloves. She was like a shadow I couldn’t shake ever since my fist had connected with her father, and right now, that shadow was stronger than ever.

I pulled out the smallest hand-wraps we had and bent down. She placed her hand on my shoulder. With a serious look, she held out her other hand and said, “I’m glad you’re here teaching me, Mr. Kace. I like you.” She paused for a second and then continued talking when I helped her put the hand-wraps on. “I don’t have a dad, but if I did, I would want him to be like you.”

Sweat broke out on my skin, self-loathing started to eclipse my thoughts, and pain erupted from the backs of my eyes as I tamped down the tears that wanted to flow.

“You’re quiet though,” she continued. “And you make funny faces.”

“Funny faces?” I asked, barely able to work my vocal cords.

“Yeah, you’re always like this.” She put her fists on her hips, curled her lip, and squinted her eyes at me.

If I hadn’t been feeling like someone had picked me up and ripped me into shreds, I would have laughed at her impression of me. “I don’t think I look like that.”

“Well, not exactly,” she answered, now with both wraps on her hands. She swatted at the air and bounced around me. “Stinging flowers and floating bees,” she said, punching some more.

“What?” I asked, confused.

“You know, Mamala-ladi.”

“Mama-what?”

“Boom, boom, boom,” she said, striking my thigh. “I’m floating like a bee. Look at me go.” She bounced around some more and then it clicked.

“Do you mean Muhammad Ali?”

“Sure,” she said while dancing around some more, adding some pathetic kicks to the mix.

“I think you meant you ‘float like a butterfly and sting like a bee’.”

“Sure. Pow, pow, pow. I’m a champion.”

I steered her to the hanging bags as she continued to bounce. “Easy there, killer. Let’s get you punching correctly first.”

I spent a good ten minutes with her, ignoring the overwhelming feeling of discomfort and violence. Violence for the position I’ve put Madeline in, a life without a father, a life comparing other men to what she thinks she would want when it came to a dad.

The pain was consuming; the heartache was too much. There was only one way I knew how to get rid of this all-encompassing feeling of complete hatred for myself. It was time to call the boys.

Chapter Twenty Four

My past…

Humidity seeped into my pores as the early morning light started to peek through the alleys of New Orleans. Sanitation crews ran up and down the streets, washing away the sins from the night before, preparing for a fresh start of a new day. Musky trash and bile scattered the curbs and moisture glistened on the brick walls, displaying the rough heat of Louisiana in the summer.

I could smell the bloodshed waiting for me. The air electrified with violence as I waited in my normal spot, my selected spot where no one would dare disturb what happened in such an area.

Evil lurked in the dark and dreary alley I’d chosen. Malevolent and ugly crimes were conducted in such alleyways, and that was what I was here for.

It was the anniversary of Marshall Duncan’s death. It was the anniversary of my biggest regret. It was the anniversary of the day I’d let my soul slip away from me and the day I’d sworn to the heavens above I would punish myself until my last breath.

There was only one way I celebrated this day, only one way I knew how to, and that was by getting lost in pain.

Heavy footsteps padded along the cobblestone streets. I knew those footsteps. They belonged to large, intimidating men with steel-toed boots and iron fists. They belonged to the men I’d paid to come beat the shit out of me.

Like usual, they rounded the corner, wearing black pants and shirts, cracking their knuckles and looking hungry. I paid them well to attack to me, to make me forget. I fought back sometimes, putting in a few punches here and there, nothing too damaging. I saved that for the bags, something I should have thought of when I was standing face-to-face with Marshall Duncan.

I was leaning up against the wall of one of the buildings that flanked the alleyway when they came up to me.

“Looking good, Mr. Haywood. Another year has done you well.”

I observed Vinny’s appearance and said, “How’s the wife?”

“Just had twins.”

“No shit.” I shook my head. “They yours?”

Before I saw it coming, Vinny cocked his fist back and hit my jaw straight on, sending me to the ground. Pain ricocheted through me—intoxicating pain, welcome pain.

“You know damn well they’re mine,” Vinny replied with mirth in his voice.

I stood up and gripped my jaw. “Fuck, wouldn’t have guessed you had time to work out if the wife just had twins.”

“Got to stay in shape for the missis.” Vinny flexed, showing off his bulky body. His bulk wasn’t defined since he loved his wife’s Italian food way too much, but beneath a thin layer of lasagna was some muscle that could do quite a bit of damage. I nodded at the other two men Vinny had brought with him. “New goons?”

“Meet my nephews, Johnny and Marco.”

I tilted my chin at them and then turned back to Vinny. “Nice that you’re keeping the business in the family.”

“We’re all about familia,” Vinny answered, laying his Italian accent on thick. “Are you done with the tea time?”