Chapter 33

Present Day

Preacher released a shuddering sigh, and as the air fled his lungs, the light leached from his eyes. He slumped back against his pillows, looking shaken.

 “Daddy?” I whispered. “What happened next?”

He turned his face just a fraction, enough for me to see the tears in his eyes. “I went home the next mornin’ and found you in your crib screamin’ something fierce. Hungry, diaper hadn’t been changed.”

I was gripping the bedrail so hard my knuckles had turned white. “Where was she?”

He shook his head. “She was gone, Eva.”

“Gone? As in—”

“As in half her shit was gone and so was she.”

I glanced up at Deuce. Standing beside me with one hand on my back, he was watching Preacher intently, every bit as captivated by the story as I was. Releasing the bedrail, I wiped my sweaty palms down the front of my jeans. “So she did run off, then?”

“Never woulda guessed she woulda left me—or you—like that.” Preacher’s voice began to quiver. Blinking rapidly, he swallowed several times. “But I fucked up, Eva. I said some shit I shouldn’t have. None of that shit was her fault. It was mine—it was all my fault.”

“Did you ever find out anything? Anything at all?” My voice was hoarse—strained with desperation. And my skin felt too tight, my lungs and throat, too—as if my last shreds of hope were strangling me.

“I kept thinkin’ she’d show back up after she cooled off. I kept thinkin’ that she had to come back… for you, at least.”

Tears burning in my eyes, emotion lodged in my throat, I could hardly speak. “So she didn’t come back?” I managed to ask. Deuce’s hand on my back began to move in soothing circular motions.

Preacher stared off across the room. “I was a mess—couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. I had Tiny stayin’ at the apartment, gave you to Joe and Sylvie, and I went lookin’ for her. Looked everywhere. Even filed a missing person’s report. That’s when the Feds came knockin’, tryin’ to say I did somethin’ to her. And that’s when I found out who she really was.”

Preacher released a chest-rattling sigh. “Elizabeth Stephens—that was her real name. Born and raised in Southern California. Parents were Linda and Daniel Stephens—blue-collar family. Daniel died in a car crash when she was only three years old. Fell asleep at the wheel. Linda worked odd jobs for a few years until she remarried some hotshot real estate developer from Newport Beach. Name was Bruce Holtz. Guy was loaded. And a real fuckin’ scumbag.”

Listening to Preacher, it sounded as though he’d memorized a file on my mother—which, knowing my father, he probably had.

“A few women filed rape charges against him over the years.” His eyes on the ceiling, Preacher shook his head. “Ain’t nothin’ ever came of any of it—the charges were always dropped. Back then, things being the way they were, him being as rich as he was, I figured either nobody believed those poor girls, or he’d paid ‘em off.”

“Rape,” I repeated numbly. “Did he—”

“She never told me,” Preacher interrupted. “But with him bein’ such a fuckin’ scumbag, and her bein’ so damn scared of bein’ sent home, it wasn’t hard to put it all together.”

I closed my eyes and just breathed—an attempt to clear my head of the uncomfortable, painful images filling it. Just like my mother, I knew what it was like to be violated by someone who’d been like family to me. Had she blamed herself, too?

It certainly wasn’t something I was glad to share with her, but it did help me understand why she’d been so secretive, and why she lied to everyone. Even the fear that had caused her to betray Preacher to the FBI made sense.

“What happened to Holtz?” It was Deuce who spoke. The hand on my back stilled, and I opened my eyes to find my husband staring at my father, a menacing gleam in his eyes.

Looking between them, seeing a similar expression on Preacher’s face, I swallowed hard. It was easy to forget the kind of men they were—how cold and detached they could be when it came to those who’d wronged them or dared to hurt the people they loved.

Preacher smiled faintly—a slight baring of teeth. “He died the followin’ year. Got carjacked at gunpoint, and took a bullet in each eye.”

“The followin’ year?” Deuce sounded amused.

Preacher’s expression turned indignant. “I couldn’t do anything right away. The club, the goddamn Feds—I had too much heat on me. One wrong move and I was goin’ away for life.”

“How’d you get the FBI off your back?”

“I made them an offer they couldn’t refuse.”

“You helped them take down the Columbo family, didn’t you?”

Preacher shrugged. “They wanted a notch on their belt and the recognition, and I figured I was better off havin’ the Feds owe me one, rather than them beatin’ down my door every other second.”

“Jesus, Fox. You’re half the fuckin’ reason the Italian’s operation fell apart.” Deuce sounded impressed—a rare occurrence.

“And her mother—my grandmother?” I interrupted, faltering over my words. I couldn’t have cared less about anything to do with the mob or the FBI. Tears were still threatening and I was finding it increasingly hard to hold them back. Deuce’s hand moved from my back to my shoulder and gave me a comforting squeeze.

Preacher’s eyes shot to mine. “Don’t you cry for her, baby girl,” he growled. “That bitch wasn’t your grandmother; she was a goddamn drunk and a piece of shit. I kept tabs on her over the years. She got all that bastard’s money and drank herself to death. Died when you were fourteen. Was a better death than she deserved, and she damn sure wasn’t worth your tears.”

I shook my head, and a single tear slipped free. I wasn’t crying for her. I wasn’t even crying for my mother.

I was crying for Preacher.

I’d thought I’d known who he was. But I hadn’t. I hadn’t known him at all.

It isn’t easy to see your parents as people, separate from you. To think that they once had a life before you, that they’d lived and loved and lost, and everything in between, all before you’d ever existed.

The Preacher I knew, the one I’d loved my entire life, was a driving force in the criminal underground. He was a hard man, steadfast, who brooked no arguments from anyone—with the minor exception of those he loved.

But he’d also been so much more than that, more than I’d ever dreamed. I’d never known the young Preacher—full of self-doubt, lost in the world, and wishing for something more. I hadn’t known the son who’d struggled to free himself from the life his father had laid out for him. Neither had I known the man who’d loved the girl.

I only knew the person he’d become after he’d lost so much, the man he’d become because he’d lost so much. I was suddenly feeling as if he’d been shortchanged—as if we both had.

“Ah, shit, Eva.” Preacher reached over the bedrail, his hand quivering. “Never could stand seein’ you cry.”

I grasped his hand between mine and bowed my head. And then I cried. I cried for all of us. For Preacher, for The Judge and Ginny, for Elizabeth Stephens, and… for me.

“Why did you wait until now to tell me the truth?” I eventually asked, wiping away the last of my tears. “About all of it. I still don’t understand, Daddy. Why did you keep it from me?”

Preacher stared at me for a moment, considering. “Back then a lot of people thought I took out my own parents, and I didn’t bother correcting them. They thought I was crazy, they were afraid of me, and that served me well over the years… but I didn’t want you knowin’ any of that—thinkin’ that of me.” He paused, his chest heaving with heavy, painful-sounding breaths.

“I might have told you the truth once you were old enough to understand. But as it turned out… I didn’t even know the truth.”

Tears filled his eyes. “And then… I couldn’t tell you, Eva. I couldn’t face it. It was all my fault… all my fuckin’ fault. It was right there in front of my face the whole goddamn time and I never saw it.”

Eyes narrowed in confusion, I squeezed his hand harder. “What was your fault?”

His sunken features contorted. Pain blazed in his eyes. “Everything, baby girl. Every goddamn thing.”

• • •

The click-click of footsteps across the floor startled Preacher awake. He’d fallen asleep slumped forward in one of the two uncomfortable chairs in Frank’s hospital room. Pushing upright, he peered at the newcomer in the room through blurry eyes. Petite, with long blonde hair, the young nurse gave Preacher a sympathetic smile.

Approaching Frank, she began systematically checking the machines surrounding his hospital bed. Muted red and green lights flashed from one; a soft, steady beeping came from another. And in the center of it all lay Frank—heavily sedated, an oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth, he lay utterly still save for the slight rise and fall of his chest.

It had been three days since Preacher had gotten the call—Frank had been involved in an accident on the Long Island Expressway. The pileup had sent a Mack truck skidding straight into Frank’s bike, dragging him across three lanes of traffic and crashing through the median before dislodging him.

Glancing at the empty chair beside him, Preacher wondered where Tiny had disappeared to. He looked to the window—at the black sky beyond the brightly lit skyline. Then at the clock on the wall—it was nearly midnight.

Scratching idly at his stubbled jaw, Preacher got to his feet and approached the bed. “How’s he doin’?” he asked.

“It’s too soon to tell,” the nurse replied. “He’s suffered so many injuries. His body needs time to heal.”

He glanced down at his friend’s unrecognizable face—bruised and swollen and missing skin on his left cheek. Most of the skin on the left side of his body was in similar condition—mangled and shredded. Frank had also broken his left arm, both of his legs, and nearly all his ribs. There was internal damage, too—some brain swelling and a punctured lung that he’d since had surgery to repair.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ve seen people recover from far worse.”

Eyes flicking up, Preacher nodded slowly. He knew Frank would recover. He and the rest of the club would see to that.

Finished checking on Frank, she started across the room. Pausing at the door, she glanced over her shoulder and flashed Preacher a smile—an interested, flirtatious smile.

“You should go home and go to bed,” she said.

Fully awake now, Preacher took a moment to look her over. She was cute, but nothing special. There was nothing remotely interesting about her face or body, nothing that stood out and made him take notice. Still…she’d do.

“Yeah?” He raised his brows. “You gonna join me?”

Her answering blush was contrived—an attempt to look innocent when her body language told him she was anything but. Head tilted to one side, neck exposed, her slim fingers tapped along the side of her white dress uniform, purposely drawing his attention to her tilted hip.

Not in the mood for games, Preacher regarded her plainly. “What time do you get off?”

A breezy shrug. “Two.”

“My place or yours?”

Her smile turned coy. “We’ll see,” she said, and then slipped into the hallway.

Smirking, Preacher turned back to Frank. “It’s the leather, brother. Gets ‘em every time.”

Staring down at his disfigured friend, his humor quickly faded. Preacher hated hospitals. The dead and dying aside, he hated the smell of them—a god-awful mixture of urine and cleaning solution. He hated the feel of them, too—so suffocating, and restricting. It wasn’t all that long ago that he’d finished up his second stint in prison, and tiny rooms such as this one never failed to make him feel like he was right back inside.

But he wouldn’t leave, at least not until Tiny returned. He’d promised Frankie Jr. as much—the poor kid had already lost his mother to cancer a few years back. And if something should happen to Frank during the night, Preacher didn’t want Frank to be alone. He’d made that crystal clear when the hospital staff had demanded he leave and return during visiting hours. Fuck their rules. He had a duty to his road chief, as his president and as his friend, to stand by his side.

Sighing, Preacher shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and began meandering around the room, stopping every few minutes to glance out the window at the illuminated city below. Always awake, that was New York. Wide awake and ever changing.

The city reminded him of Eva—astoundingly adaptable, and with a solid foundation regardless of the fast-moving, always-changing world around her. Despite her young age, his baby girl had handled his time in prison like a champ and his homecoming just as well. She was well suited to this life, he thought proudly, even as the very same thought caused a sinking sensation in his gut.

Shaking his head to clear it, Preacher turned away from the window and his gaze snagged on a large plastic bag—a patient belongings bag shoved into a corner.

Picking up the bag, he pulled it open, grimacing as the acrid scent of blood and body odor filled his nostrils. What remained of the clothes Frank had been wearing during the accident had been stuffed inside—two mangled boots and what was left of his leather cut.

Preacher set the destroyed leather aside. He would have someone salvage the patches and sew them onto a new vest.

Pulling the boots from the bag, he found Frank’s wallet tucked inside one, while something shiny glinted from inside the other. Preacher’s hand disappeared inside the boot, closing around something hard.

“What the fuck,” he muttered, pulling free a heavy metal key ring.

Squinting in the dimly lit room, he held up the throng of, not just keys, but jewelry. Mostly rings, but also charms and the occasional earring or bracelet. He turned the key ring in his hand, his eyes roaming the odd mix when he suddenly stopped.

The boot in his other hand fell to the floor with a hard ‘thwap’.

He moved quickly across the room and flipped on the light—the overhead fluorescents flickered on, brightening the room.

His heart pounding in his chest, Preacher stared down at the ring squeezed between his thumb and forefinger—a World War II United States Marine Corps ring, its ruby center glinting brilliantly. Slowly he rolled the ring between his fingers, exposing the inscription inside: THE JUDGE.

Preacher’s heart hammered wildly inside his chest. He’d forgotten about this ring until this very moment, forgotten that his father had almost never taken it off. It had been a permanent fixture on his right ring finger.

How had Frank—

Why did Frank—

Releasing the ring, Preacher began searching frantically through the rest of the jewelry, pausing briefly to study each piece. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for, only that he was thinking of his mother.

Piece by piece, he stared down at the unfamiliar scraps of metal. For all he knew, any number of them could have belonged to Ginny.

It had to be a fluke. There had to be an explanation. For whatever reason, Frank had The Judge’s ring, and Frank would have a reason. A damn good reason for having this—this key ring full of things that so clearly didn’t belong to him. And Frank’s reason would make perfect sense, and Preacher’s world would stop spinning and—

Preacher froze.

He stopped moving, stopped breathing.

Everything stopped.

His heart, his breath, the whole fucking world went skidding off the road, headed straight for the unforgiving wall of what was to become his new reality and shattering everything he thought he’d known.

“No…” he whispered hoarsely. “No, no, no, no, no.”

Staggering backward, his back found the wall.

He shook his head, refusing to believe his own eyes. Maybe it wasn’t hers. Maybe it was just a coincidence.

With a shaking finger, he touched the tiny silver butterfly—spotted and tarnished.

A strangled noise slipped past his lips. “Wheels,” he rasped.

Preacher hopped out of bed and dropped down on one knee. Then he gestured for Debbie’s hand. Looking adorably bewildered, she gave it. Twisting her butterfly ring off her index finger, he pushed it onto her ring finger.

“I promise I’ll get you somethin’ better,” he told her. “A big, fat rock or somethin’. Whatever the fuck you want.”

She only continued to stare down at him, wide-eyed and gaping. Several seconds passed, long enough that Preacher was starting to wonder if he’d made a mistake by springing this on her. Hell, he hadn’t even known he was going to ask her. It had been a spur of the moment decision brought about solely by the way she made him feel—like she was it for him. Like there couldn’t possibly be another her out there, and so he needed to get his fucking shit together and do right by her.

His brow rose. “Wheels, you gonna say somethin’ or you gonna leave me hangin’ ‘round down here like a goddamn fool?”

Debbie slid quickly off the bed, dropping onto his lap. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she kissed him. “Yes,” she whispered against his mouth.

“What’s that?” he asked. He pulled back to look at her—into the eyes that never failed to bring him peace. And at those sexy-as-hell lips that he couldn’t get enough of.

Laughing happily, she shoved at his chest.  “Yes, I’ll marry you! Yes, yes, yes!”

Feeling wetness on his cheek, Preacher blinked. Then he blinked again, and more tears fell.

Unsteady and trembling, he turned to look at Frank. The sight of his friend—disfigured and lying broken in a bed—didn’t have quite the same effect on him as it had before.

He looked at Frank as if he’d never seen him before.

Why? The one-word question pounded through him, as unrelenting and demanding as Preacher’s thrashing heartbeat.

Why—

How—

He didn’t—

He couldn’t—

Breath purged from Preacher’s lungs. His eyes squeezed shut and tears rained down his cheeks. He didn’t know where to begin. How to process. What to think. How to feel. He knew nothing—absolutely fucking nothing.

He wanted to rationalize this, wanted to slap some sort of reasonable explanation onto this discovery, but the truth wouldn’t relent. It pushed against each barrier Preacher tried to erect, battering wildly, shouting loudly, refusing to be ignored.

The key ring felt suddenly too heavy in his hand, this key ring full of… fucking trophies. Heavy and pulsating, pulsing like a beating heart. The beat echoed in his ears, in his veins.

Those rings weren’t just rings. They were people. Dozens of people.

The smear of blood on the trailer door flashed in his mind over and over and over again, until he felt drunk and dizzy.

Preacher choked on his thoughts. Choked on the memory of a sweet, young face. Full lips split into a wide smile. A pair of big, beautiful brown eyes.

He’d thought she’d left him. All these years he’d thought she’d run from him.

Rage—pure, unadulterated rage flowed through him. Every muscle in his body tensed until his skin felt ten times too tight, and his breath was coming in short, angry bursts.

Preacher didn’t recall crossing the room. One second he was flush against the wall and the next he was bent over the hospital bed, tearing the oxygen mask away, and gripping the swollen face of a man he’d considered his brother.

His fingers squeezed Frank’s nose while his palm covered his mouth. Frank’s body hiccupped even as Preacher felt slithers of air escape the confines of his hand. He clamped down harder. His rage swirled higher. His tears fell faster.

Another machine began to beep, faster and louder. Then an alarm went off, ringing loudly through the room.

Preacher blinked and snapped to attention. He slapped the mask back over Frank’s face and was quickly backing away from the bed when two nurses burst inside the room.

• • •

Mouth agape, barely breathing, I could do no more than stare at my father.

Much like Preacher had, I was having an equally hard time processing the truth. I didn’t even know where to begin. My grandparents, my mother, fucking Frank…

 “I just lost my fuckin’ mind,” Preacher croaked. “She’d already been gone so long, and I’d already guessed somethin’ wasn’t right. And then I saw those rings, and I knew what he’d done, and I just… lost my fuckin’ mind.”

He turned to me, his red-rimmed eyes wet with tears. “It was all my fault, Eva. I didn’t see it… I didn’t see it… I didn’t know… and it was too late. Lookin’ back now, I can see it all. Things were wrong. Frank was… wrong. I see it clearly now. Don’t know why I could never see it back then.”

Preacher squeezed his eyes closed, and tears ran freely down his wrinkled cheeks. “And Jesus, Eva,” he whispered, “You gotta know that I only took Frankie in because I felt so goddamn guilty. I was only thinkin’ about what Frank musta put him through… especially after Maria had passed.”

Recalling Frankie’s nightmares and his inability to sleep without me, I clasped my hand over my mouth, stifling a sob. He’d been beyond help—beyond anything I could have done for him, at least. Still, my heart broke for him all over again—for the broken little boy I’d loved as a brother.

There was a touch to my back, and I glanced up to find Deuce staring down at me, his features pinched, his eyes darker than normal, violence shimmering in their depths. Fighting for calm, I attempted to school my features. But it was too late, and Deuce knew me too well.

When it came to my relationship with Frankie, there was only so far Deuce could be pushed before he started pushing back. He couldn’t understand it—why I loved Frankie despite all he’d put me through. And that was okay, because most of the time neither could I. Love was irrational like that—irrational, uncontainable and unexplainable.

“I’m gonna go get some air,” he growled softly.

Feeling guilty, I watched him walk stiffly away.

With a sigh, I turned back to my father.

He was fumbling with the collar of his hospital gown, his unsteady fingers tugging his gold neck chain free. With some effort, he slipped it over his head and offered it to me.

I could only stare at the tiny ring dangling from the chain. No longer silver, it was heavily tarnished, but there was no mistaking the butterfly setting.

 “I knew she was gone,” he said, “I knew I wasn’t ever gonna see her again, but I never stopped thinkin’ that maybe she’d show back up one day. All my life, that feelin’ never left me. I kept thinkin’ maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe she was still out there somewhere.”

Trembling, he began shaking his head. “Maybe if I coulda known exactly what happened, I coulda moved on. Maybe if I coulda buried her…”

“Oh Daddy.” Fumbling with the bedrail, I found the mechanism that allowed me to lower it. Scooting my chair forward, I grabbed Preacher’s hand and brought it to my cheek. The necklace and ring dangled between us.

“You forgive me, baby girl?” Eyes full of pain and bright with tears implored me, and my heart shattered for the hundredth time that day. Vehemently I shook my head. “There’s nothing to forgive, Daddy. Frank—he did it. He did all of it.”

Preacher looked at me with such tenderness, with such love, and with more sorrow than I’d ever imagined him capable of.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered hoarsely. “I didn’t deserve her, either. I should never have touched her. I did this, Eva. I brought her into my world, and it killed her.” His voice cracked and his eyes filled again. “I killed her.”

 “No Daddy.” I attempted to sound firm, despite my grief. “Frank killed her. Frank did this.”

Preacher either didn’t hear me, or he was unwilling to believe what I was telling him. He only continued to whisper, “I didn’t deserve her.”

Wrapping an arm over his chest, I buried my face against his side and just held him as tightly as I could.