Page 112 of Dirty Hit
Her eyes harden for a flash before smoothing out again. “You’re still my son,” she says. “There is nothing you can do that will change that. You carry my blood.”
“Unfortunately,” I say.
Kyra flinches again. “Stop,” she pleads. “Please. Just… stop fighting for one night.”
I look at her, then at the woman who birthed us—who taught me everything I know about how to end a life, and nothing abouthow to live one—and feel that same split I always do. Half of me wants to take Kyra and run, and the other half wants to tear into the person standing in front of me and see if she bleeds anything human.
“I’m not fighting. I’m setting a boundary,” I say, then I turn back to my mother. “I don’t want you at my games, because you’re a distraction. Take Kyra home.”
My mother’s nostrils flare. “You may think you can cut me off, Dominic, but you can’t. Everything you are, you owe to me. Your talent, your discipline, your… appetite. Don’t forget that.”
“I remember every lesson,” I say, letting my eyes go as cold as hers. “That’s exactly why you need to leave.”
Her hand lifts, palm smooth, nails immaculate, reaching for my chest. For the scars under my shirt. For what she made. I catch her wrist before she can touch me, fingers closing hard enough that I feel the fine bones shift under my grip.
“Don’t,” I say, voice low.
Her expression flickers with fake pride. “Who has you so… agitated, my boy?”
“No one,” I snap too fast, and we both hear it.
Her smile turns cruel, predator scenting blood. “Hmm. Kyra, darling, go wait in the car,” she says in that sweet, honeyed tone that used to mean“get out before you see something you shouldn’t.”
Kyra hesitates, looking between us. “Mom—”
“Now,” she says, not raising her voice, not needing to. Kyra wilts a little, shoots me an apologetic look, and scurries around to the passenger side of their shiny SUV, climbing in and closing the door.
Then we’re alone. Well, us and the ghosts.
“She’s been asking about you,” my mother says, smoothing her hair back like she needs a second to rearrange her mask. “You ignore her. That’s unkind.”
I grind my teeth. “You don’t get to weaponize her against me, Mother.”
“Everything is a weapon if you’re smart enough,” she says calmly. “You should know that. I taught you.”
I see flashes whether I want to or not. Basement light. The metallic tang of bleach. Her hands on mine as she guides the knife.“Steady, Domenyk. Not too deep. We don’t want a mess.”Her eyes bright with approval when I don’t flinch.“Good boy. See? It’s not so hard.”
“Yeah,” I say, now pulling myself back, every muscle in my shoulders coiled. “You did a great job training me to be like you. Gold star. Look how well your experiment turned out.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “You’ve put distance between us, but you haven’t changed what you are; today just proved it. You were out there trying to play hero and beast at the same time, and it cost you. I saw you looking for someone in the stands.” Her lips curl slightly. “Who?”
My fingers flex around my keys until the metal bites into my palm. I want to say none of your fucking business. I want to say his name like a curse and a blessing. I do neither.
“Stay away from my life,” I say instead, every word ground out. “Stay away from my games. You don’t get to show up here and act like any of this is yours.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says softly. “Everything you are is mine. I carved it into you.”
It’s an effort not to shove her. I step back instead, the space between us feeling like a small victory. “You didn’t make me. You broke me and called it training.”
“Semantics,” she says. “You wouldn’t be half the player you are if not for me. You wouldn’t have the discipline. The focus. The willingness to do what needs to be done. It took so much effort to sharpen you into something useful.”
A laugh bursts out of me, harsh and humorless. “Useful,” I repeat. “That what you call it? Sending me after people who pissed off your donors? Teaching me where to cut so it’s quiet? Making sure your little prodigy knew his place?”
“You always did,” she says softly. “On your knees, or on the field. My good boy.”
The term has bile rising in my throat, as she reaches out again and lays her hand flat on my chest.
It’s a light touch, the kind a normal mother might give a son she’s proud of—fingers resting over my sternum, thumb brushing the collar of my hoodie—but my mother is not normal.
