Something in him flashes—anger, grief, the splinter of who he once was—and it’s enough.
Before I can think, the knife is in my hand.
And then it’s in him.
I stab him in the abdomen.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Each strike a white-hot answer to every lie, every manipulation, every childhood hug that turned into a cage.
His breath chokes out wet and thick. He grabs my shoulders like he’s steadyingme, not himself, and the move is so familiar it makes bile rise in my throat.
I keep going.
The blade hits cartilage.
A warm spray hits my arm—arterial blood.
The sound is wet, animal, and obscene.
Dante’s knees buckle. He sinks against me, heavy as history, heavy as guilt.
His blood runs down my wrists, hot and sticky, dripping onto my shoes in thick taps.
He tries to speak and a thread of red spills from the corner of his mouth.
“A—lia…” he rasps.
I twist the knife.
His eyes fade before he folds completely, collapsing onto the concrete in a pool of his own blood—dark and spreading.
For a moment, he looks fragile. Human.
A man instead of a monster.
Enzo and Elijah don’t move.
They just watch.
Probably shocked I could actually pull this off.
Something unwinds in my chest as my hands start to shake.
The SUV, the humming engine, the cold air… all of it becomes meaningless background noise around the simple, terrible truth:
I killed my father with my own hands.
Chapter 69
Aurelia
My dress is soaked, clinging to me, the crimson blotches turning the fabric into something unrecognizable. The smell of iron hangs in the garage, thicker than the oil and diesel fumes. My hands tremble once—only once—before I force them still.
