The amber liquid swirled against the thick rectangular glass as Grant, sitting alone in his apartment early Monday evening, tilted the unopened bottle in his lap. Staring intently at the bottle’s label, he heard his own unsteady voice read aloud, “José Cuervo.”
So, here he was again: contemplating opening the damn bottle, pondering whether or not to give into temptation. Should he allow the Barberis’ clutches to advance along one more branch of the family tree, like creeping ivy—strangling the solid trunk and weighing down the limbs until they were all destroyed? Should he open the bottle? Should he accept his fate as a Barberi man?
Joe had been behaving strangely ever since they returned from the cemetery this afternoon, and when he’d decided to help Roger with his last cruises of the day, Grant had told him he was too tired to join him. But the truth was Grant had wanted to be alone—alone with his hidden bottle of tequila, alone just like he’d been three nights ago when he’d lost Sophie. Since then even more devastating events had occurred, and he was back in the same place—back to square one, back to holding the bottle in his trembling hands, teetering on the edge of obliterating his mind and body with alcohol.
Had his father, Enzo, ever hesitated like this, wondering if he should take that first drink? Grant doubted it.
After Sophie had rejected him on the ship three mornings ago, running away in fear, he had purchased a bottle of tequila on his way home. If he couldn’t have Sophie, at least he could have the memories they shared. She had introduced him to tequila, after all.
But his corruption had actually begun long before he met Sophie. Grant frowned as he trained his gaze on the liquor. A sterile, solitary shot of tequila now would be nothing like the experience he had shared with Sophie, though he’d still get the mind-numbing effects of the alcohol.
Although he longed to be numb, a small part of him did have to admit that his circumstances with Sophie had improved. She’d attended Logan’s funeral—not for Logan, but for him. And, miraculously, she’d hugged him. But would she ever look at him and see Grant Madsen? Or was he doomed to be Grant Barberi, tagged and weighed down by fear and mistrust?
He held the neck of the bottle tightly. Alcohol had a long and storied role in his family. He could remember that history in the making.
Seven-year-old Grant lay splayed out across his bed, making swooshing light-saber sounds as Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader action figures battled in his hands. Across the room, Logan made his own noises—frustrated sighs as he slogged through his sixth-grade science homework. Suddenly their father burst in, a folded belt coiled in his hand.
“All right, which one of you hid my vodka?” Enzo snarled, his wild black stare threatening each boy in turn.
Logan’s surprised gaze darted from the instrument of punishment in his father’s hand to his brother’s wide, frightened eyes, which flashed with obvious guilt. Shit. Logan knew in an instant Grant was to blame for their father’s missing bottle.
Enzo’s eyes narrowed as he fumed. “Goddamn it! You stay out of my stuff, you hear? If I don’t hear a confession this instant, you’ll both get it!”
He raised his right arm in a wide arc, preparing to strike his trembling younger son when Logan shouted urgently, “It was me!”
Enzo swiftly spun around.
Gulping, Logan shakily admitted again, “I did it.”
Grant drew his hand to his mouth, strangled by fear. What was Lo doing? Grant should be the one confessing, not Logan. But his throat was suddenly tight, and he was unable to squeak a sound.
“Logan,” Enzo began, his voice smoother now that he had the situation under control. “Tell Grant where you hid the bottle, and then he’ll go put it back while I teach you a lesson.”
The twelve year old gave his little brother with a desperate glance. “It’s in the basement,” Logan guessed.
Enzo turned and glowered at Grant. “That bottle better be returned to my cabinet by the time I’m done here, or you’ll be learning the same lesson as your brother.”
Grant flew out of the room as the first crack of the belt rang out. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as he ran down the stairs, trying to distance himself from the horror in their bedroom. He did not hear Logan cry out in pain. Unlike Grant, Logan never cried.
Grant had stopped breathing, and he had the bottleneck in a death grip. Clouds rolling in had blocked the sun, and it seemed late in the evening, though it was only the afternoon. Blinking quickly, Grant looked around, trying to orient himself, and he finally sucked in a gasping breath.
How many times had Logan tried to save him? How many times had he attempted to protect their mother? Too many to count. But nobody had ever tried to save or protect Logan. Grant’s mind kept replaying the past:
With their father safely snoring away in an alcoholic stupor on the sofa downstairs, Grant and Logan lay sprawled on their respective beds, the room dark and quiet. But neither boy was sleeping. Since Grant had returned after replacing the bottle of liquor, Logan refused to talk to him, a decision that left the younger brother consumed by anxiety.
The bedroom door creaked open, slanting a triangle of hallway light across the yellow carpet. “Are you boys okay?” Karita whispered.
“Yeah, Mommy,” Grant called out. Logan remained silent.
Creeping toward their beds, Karita softly rubbed the black hair on Grant’s head. In the dim light, he could make out the contours of her beautiful face, the lines of worry creasing around her mouth, and the bright turquoise eyes framed by wavy blond hair.
“Grant,” she whispered tenderly, sitting at his side. “I know you’re trying to help, but, honey, you cannot hide your father’s vodka.”
He frowned and looked like he was about to cry. “I’m sorry.”
She cradled his cheek. “You can’t provoke him like that. He’s an adult, and he’s the only one who can control his drinking.”
Logan could remain quiet no longer. “But he doesn’t!” he hissed. “He doesn’t control his drinking at all. That’s the problem!”
Karita sighed and placed her hands in her lap, helplessly gazing across the room at her hostile older son. “How are you feeling, Logan?”
Logan rolled over in bed, turning his back on his mother.
Grant watched his mother look down, seeming to choke back a sob. “We’re going to leave him someday,” Karita promised. “We’ll go live on our own.”
Logan sat up and turned to face her with a bitter sneer. “You always say that, Mom! But we’re still here, aren’t we? He’s still beating the crap out of us!”
Grant pleaded, “Don’t be mad, Lo.” He watched his mother cover her face with her hands, sitting there helplessly, and realized Logan was probably right. They weren’t going anywhere. His father would hunt them down no matter where they went.