I close my eyes, then pull away from her slowly, needing space to breathe. To think. I glance back at Alex, not knowing what I want at this moment.
And somehow… he understands. Just from my eyes, just from the tight line of my lips. He gives me a slight nod and gently lowers the gun from Oliver’s head.
Oliver exhales sharply like he’s been holding his breath underwater.
“You can’t kill me,” he says, some shaky edge trying to pretend it’s strength. “My men will come for me. You’re making a mistake.”
Alex chuckles, but there’s no humor in it.
“Your men?” he repeats, voice sharp and low, the kind that could make glass crack. “They’re being taken care of right now—at your warehouse. Probably zip-tied and begging like dogs.”
Oliver stiffens.
“Your accounts? Being drained as we speak. Your little empire of threats and blood money will be gone soon, too.” Alex says, voice steady and serious, “And your two accountants—the ones you trusted? They’re crying in a basement deep inside the woods. Right where you’re headed.”
I see it happen in slow motion.
Oliver’s face contorts with fear, his pupils dilating as Alex’s words sink in like knives. His lips part as if to protest.
“Tell me you’re joking,” he says shakily
Alex’s answer is cold.
“Do I look like a clown to you?”
Then, without warning, he grabs Oliver by the hair again and slams his head against the wooden table.
Hard.
The crack of bone against wood echoes through the trailer like a gunshot. The table splits violently beneath the force. I flinch. My mother lets out a muffled scream, covering her mouth as she recoils beside me. Oliver collapses to the floor, blood painting the side of his face, his nose mangled and broken.
He’s not dead. But he’s not moving either.
Alex doesn’t even glance down at him. His attention shifts to my mother. She’s trembling, still trying to suppress her sobswith both hands pressed to her lips. Her wide, terrified eyes meet his.
He tilts his head slowly; the look on his face is not one of sympathy but of disgust and disinterest.
“Why the hell are you so noisy?” he mutters, voice rough, gravel scraping over steel.
She shrinks toward me, clinging, seeking comfort from the same son she spent years tearing apart.
I want to laugh. I really do. Instead, I bite my lip until I taste blood.
Good, I am glad he doesn’t like her.
Alex rolls his eyes like she’s nothing but an annoying background noise.
“He’s not dead, woman. Calm down.”
His gaze snaps to Mike, who’s still holding one of Oliver’s men hostage with practiced, deadly stillness.
“Signal them to come in.”
Mike nods, pressing two fingers to the small earpiece tucked in his ear. Professional and efficient, like they’ve done this a hundred times.
And I know they have.
But all I can do is stare at Alex.
