Shackled Hearts (Chained Hearts Duet 4)

“You have some cheek,” my father snaps at me.

“You know where Chanel is?” Brody asks, stepping farther into the room and closer to my father, his eyes now pinned on him while my father brings his beer to his lips and takes a long drink.

“And who are you?” he finally asks, pulling the beer away from his mouth.

“I’m her brother, and I want to know where she is. Chanel always checks in, and she hasn’t.”

“Seems to be a you problem,” my father barks back with a smile on his face. He lifts the beer as he says, “Good luck finding her.” Then he proceeds to place the bottle to his lips once more.

Brody glances at me. When I do nothing, I watch it click in his head. It’s a slow process, but one I recognize all too well.

Despair.

Frustration.

Then anger.

He grinds his teeth before he looks away.

“Little boys should never play with the big boys,” my father comments, which sends Brody over the edge. He reaches forward, produces a gun, and raises it to my father’s head. I sit back farther in my chair, excited to see how this comedy in action will play out.

“Where is she? This will be your only warning,” Brody snarls.

My father places his beer on the table, careful not to move his head as the gun stays pointed into his skull.

“You are going to let this boy point a gun at me in my establishment?” I look behind Brody to Sergio standing there, his arms crossed over his chest without a care.

“He asked you a question.” I smile at my father.

When my father chooses not to answer, Brody surprises us all by taking the safety off.

Sergio’s arms lower from his chest, and he pushes off the wall.

“Last time I’m asking.”

“Boy, you have no idea who you’re fucking with,” my father says calmly.

“Where. Is. My. Sister?” Brody’s voice rises with each word.

Who knew this kid could be hard? It’s always the quiet ones.

“Who taught you to hold a gun?” I ask Brody.

When he answers, he doesn’t look at me, “Chanel.”

“What else has she taught you?” I ask him.

“How to shoot.” Then he moves the gun from my father’s head and shoots him in the leg. Everyone, and I mean everyone, goes dead silent. No one really thought he would do it. It even takes a second for my father to register that he’s been shot and for the pain to hit him.

Sergio moves quickly, removing the gun from Brody’s hand and pinning him to the wall while my father wails in his seat like a damn baby.

“It’s best you tell the kid where she is,” I tell my father, at which he returns a sharp look.

“You want her.” He’s baiting me. He should know better. I did learn from him after all, but I’ve out-mastered the master.

“Where is she?” I prompt him again.

My father looks to the kid, who’s still against the wall with Sergio holding him there before glancing back to me as he grips his leg. “Still at my place,” he finally answers. “Do you plan to tell him where I live?” My father’s voice is not shaky, but I can hear the concern. He isn’t used to someone protecting the ones they love—he witnessed it but has never been a victim of it. And let’s be clear, my father is far from a victim. He’s always the villain, or should I say asshole, in every person’s story.