The Bastard Spent The Night

Rowan.

There were two things that I hated the most. The first, was the morning rush hour traffic that drove me off the edge every single fucking morning. Everyone hated traffic, but I hated it more.

The blaring of horns and the congested feeling that welled up in seconds as you slowly began to realize you might have selective claustrophobia. If it was up to me, I'd take out a riffle and force the other drivers at gunpoint into paving way for me.

But that would cause too much attention, and in my line of work, it was always about staying away from the public eye.

The second thing I hated even more than fucking traffic was the way Jas tilted her head and leaned in to lock arms with that smug looking bastard, Ferrari.

Nothing in this world would've prepared me for that night in September when Jas brought home a low pony tailed, six foot two college freshman and claimed the man with huge biceps on each arm was her boyfriend.

I recalled the way the bastard acted that night, he barely listened to a word I said or answered any of the questions I asked him. Jas played it off as me being overly protective and insisted the bastard was just shy.

But I could smell bullshit from a mile away, and Ferrari reeked of it. After dinner (which he did not touch) the bastard went outside for a smoke, leaving me and Jas alone in the living room. It took all my strings of self control not to take out my pistol from under the floorboard and teach him a thing or two.

However, I swore to Jas that I had tossed all the guns out of the house, infact the promise I made ran deeper than that. I actually told my little sister that I was out of the 'business' my father left behind after his untimely death, and worked a clean office job.

With mom dying while Jasmine was just two years old, father had us move from south Carolina to New York, where as one could guess he tried to make a quick buck by getting his hands dirty. After a timeline of bad decisions and irrevocable choices, he was in too deep with the city's underbelly and was shot in his own kitchen on Thanksgiving morning.

Jas was the first one to see Dad's bloody corpse laid against the oven where the turkey was sitting. The poor girl was too shaken to even cry out for help, she just stood there choked in tears, watching house flies make a home out of our father's corpse.

Ever since, Jas had been loosing sleep, and had to go for regular therapy sessions. In-between trying to foot the bills for running our house, paying for both mine and Jas' education, not to mention the load of debt father left us in. It wasn't surprising that when Bronx came with the tattoo needle, that I answered the call.

And all I had to show for it was the tattoo of snake coiled around a dagger than ran down the back of my neck to my lower back.

My phone vibrated from under the pillow, I picked it up and saw a text from my current girlfriend, Camille reminding me of the dinner party her father was throwing later that evening.

She hinted in her text that I would be picking her up from her apartment, which was at the very least a thirty minute drive. Reason being, Camille moved out of our house because she and Jas never saw eye to eye, and she knew that if I had to pick between them, I'd chose my last surviving family member anytime.

I groaned and got out of bed to take a shower. The drapes were down, but I could tell that it was still dark outside, probably around 3am.

As the cold water hit my upper back, a hiss escaped my lips. It was just four nights ago that I raided a casino with my men on Bronx's order. It was meant to be a 'friendly' reminder to pay up the money they owed. But my information gathered failed to mention they peddled guns across the boarder.

In seconds the scene turned ugly and I got shot in the upper back while trying to cover for one of my men.

The wound hadn't completely healed yet. But I didn't have the luxury to bitch about that. Camille's father was a corporate businessman, and getting his investment in the latest project I was heading would be enormous.

That was the entire reason I got with Camille in the first place. But then, I did enjoy having her around and she just kind of grew on me.

After my shower I changed into a fitted white shirt, and black pants, then hung my suit jacket over my shoulders. I took out one of my finest watches out of my collection and wore one of the twin matching diamond earrings I had shipped in two months ago.

"Let's get this day over with." I said staring at reflection, at the tired twenty five year old, with dark circles underneath his hazel eyes.

My day was monotonous.

I would get dressed and get in the car waiting for me downstairs, try my hardest to beat the morning traffic and drive down to headquarters where I'd get briefed on my daily agenda.

The rest of the day would be spent fulfilling those agendas and whenever I finished, I'd come home to Jas waiting up for me with some not so healthy snacks and a movie prepped and ready for me.

Ever since dad's death, I made it tradition to stay with Jas right until she fell asleep, she said it made her feel safer and more at ease than her pills did.

That was the only part of my day that I looked forward to, and just like any other day, I'm going to breeze through everything to go home to my sister—

I held that thought the moment I got to the apex of the stairs and caught Ferrari walking out of Jas' bedroom at bloody four am! I narrowed my vision at the first three buttons of his gray shirt unfastened and the rough bed hair he was sporting.

That little fucker…

Just as I was about to say something, Ferrari stopped in his tracks and raised his chin, until he was staring directly at me, taking me by surprise by how quickly he picked up on my presence.

He made sure our gazes were locked firmly and right before he got on the move, he mouthed something and then lifted the corners of his mouth into a half-smile directed at me.

And then he circled towards the main door, taking bold confident steps, feeling fucking proud that he had fucked my sister under my roof, without me having a fucking clue about it!

I curled my fingers around my imaginary pistol and pulled back the trigger, picturing the face of the bastard I hated the most.

Alessander Fucking Ferrari.