Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87367 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 437(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87367 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 437(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
“I barely remember his face,” I lied, since I could remember plenty about it for having only seen it a moment. Didn’t come across a face like that often.
“That face was the face of Cohen Mitchell,” Big Daddy said. “Let that sink in.”
As soon as I heard the last name, I knew what this conversation had been about.
“Oooohhhh…”
“Fuck,” Walker muttered beside me as I became even more acutely aware of the throbbing headache tormenting me.
“So you can imagine how your father feels about his son parading around with the family’s sworn enemies since prohibition…and since no one from the law is around, safe to say, before prohibition.”
The family feud.
The goddamn Mitchells versus the O’Ralleys. How in the hell could I have known that the random guy I found to lock lips with was, unwittingly, part of the convoluted feud I’d heard about all my life, right up until the Mitchells’ distillery closed down two years prior.
“Big Daddy, I didn’t even realize there were still any Mitchells left. I thought it was a rumor.”
He paused a moment, reflecting on my comment. “So this wasn’t some grand statement you were trying to make to shame our family name?”
“Not at all. I ran into Karissa last night, and she wanted to talk. I grabbed someone, a total stranger, and kissed him, hoping to shake her. It worked. That was the end of it, short of kissing a Mitchell, who looked so out of place, I doubt he’s even planning on being in this town very long. That’s the entire story.”
“You didn’t find him on social media?” Dwain asked. “Bring him out here to cause trouble?”
“Dwain, that’s nearly as dumb as the rest of this conversation. I do not know this guy. I had nothing to do with why he’s here. And I doubt I’ll ever see him around here again.”
Big Daddy seemed to be soaking in everything I’d said.
As much as I wanted to soothe him, I really didn’t see a fucking reason why it would have been any of their business if I did want to parade around town with a Mitchell. This was not a hundred years ago, and I had no beef with some guy I’d never met before.
“I believe you, Brody,” Big Daddy said, which earned a scoff from Dwain. “I have to admit, with business going the way it has been, knowing a Mitchell’s in town feels like a bad omen. That family never did nothing to help us stay in business, would have reveled in our defeat, and part of me feels like this guy might have come at the right time for that.”
What had begun as such anger with me for what Big Daddy had believed was a stunt was followed by a familiar sorrow I’d seen in him as we had greater and greater issues keeping the distillery open. I saw the hardworking father I’d come to know all these years, the man trying to keep the business going and provide for his family.
“I’m sorry for raising my voice,” Big Daddy said, sitting back down and retrieving his paper, but Dwain’s expression seemed less forgiving. “I’d like to think you wouldn’t do anything intentionally to shame this family and our history…our legacy. I know it doesn’t mean as much to you kids, but history and our name is all we have to hold on to. Without our past, what do we have? What can we hold on to?”
I knew he meant Big Momma.
And I also saw, plain as day, that the whole fucked-up situation was a perfect example of the dysfunctional mess we’d become since her death. In some ways, it had brought us closer together, but even though we would have killed without question for each other, there was something else that lingered—a certain distance that kept us so very far apart.
“So let this be a reminder,” Big Daddy went on. “You sit at this table, you stand against all Mitchells. There is no middle ground on this. So long as this Mitchell is in this town, we, as all O’Ralleys have done since 1931—well, 1935, if the law asks—stand against him and his wicked blood.”
“Amen, Big Daddy,” Dwain and Lee said together.
Walker and Mel didn’t respond, but it didn’t seem that their responses mattered as much as mine, because Big Daddy’s eyes were right on me.
“Fine,” I muttered.
Big Daddy would see how ridiculous this all was once Cohen finished appraising the place or taking out whatever he needed to take back to wherever he was from.
But it was going to be a real shame not to get to taste his mouth again.
CHAPTER THREE
Cohen
I’d been up most of the damn night.
Isaac was sleeping in one of the bedrooms, while I sat awake with my laptop—and fucking Internet, thank you very much. Byron Palms, Harris Mitchell’s lawyer, had assured me he’d kept utilities on and had housekeeping in once a week, keeping things clean since Harris’s death.