The Mafia's Son III

Chapter Nineteen.

Isaac's POV

The drive back to the warehouse is unbearable, the dead silence in the truck is so uncomfortable that I actually think my father sitting to the right of me can hear my thoughts and I begin to regret riding in the same vehicle as him.

For a second there I actually thought that he wouldn't follow me out to the trucks when I decided to leave the room.

I genuinely believed that he was gonna ride this out as long as he could and make me lie to my own mother.

There was no way in hell that I was about to go back home, tell her that her husbands alive, yet he refuses to come home because of his own stupidity and pride. I couldn't let her continue living in this lie that he forced on top of us.

I couldn't look her in the eyes knowing willing that her husband was alive somewhere out there, but had no intentions on coming to see her I would tell her regardless of his decision I would pull her out of her misery, the pain, the hurt, out of that depression, even if it meant triggering something new inside her, anger, betrayal, hatred for him.

I would gladly push my feelings on top of her if it meant he came back home to her, if he would stay under the roof as us, I know my mother- eventually, she'll give in she'll let him back in, he'll win her back, it was me who he was going to have to put up with because I have no intentions of letting any of this go anytime soon.

I open and close my right hand a couple times trying to get rid of the nasty nagging ache from repeatedly hitting him in the face. It's definitely going to bruise, but not as bad as his face, which I still wouldn't mind hitting another twenty nine times.

My left hook isn't as powerful as my right one but I could definitely put it to work for a couple of minutes before having to stop and ice it if it meant being able to get my frustrations out.

I'm still a little taken back that he didn't have the need to stop me hitting him or even have the need to fight back because believe me- if it weren't for Beenie we'd still be at Roxwell's warehouse and I would still be beating the shit out of my father.

Hitting him honestly didn't make me feel any better, if anything it made me feel worse.

Hitting him only confirmed that he was actually standing in front of me, that I wasn't seeing some type of ghost or imagining shit in my head, the ache in my hand is real, the blood on my knuckles is real, it's my dads blood and he's very much alive.

"I see you finally met Sacramento," he speaks softly, breaking the silence in the truck.

"Don't fucking talk to me," I grumble turning to my left and  looking out the window. I begin to softly message my left temple while continuing to avoid him. The immense headache is now starting to take place as the frustration continues to slowly die down.

"What do you think?" He wonders out loud, testing the little fucking patience that I have left . "Do you like him? Is this his first time you've worked together?"

I turn around to face him, my right hand in the air lock and loaded ready to hit him, "what part of don't fucking talk to me don't you understand?!"

Beanie quickly slams on the breaks bringing the truck to a stop.

My dad immediately shifts backs into his seat, moving to the side, "don't you fucking dare," he points over at my fist. "Use your fucking words if you want to hurt me, I still can't feel the left side of my fucking face."

I scoff sitting back in my seat and tap a hand on Bernie's shoulder as he looks through the rear view mirror, "continue driving."

"Maybe we should switch seats, boss, until the tension dies down a bit," Dominic says, looking over his shoulders from the passenger seat.