The man who taught me fear was a weapon.The man who trained us to bleed without flinching.The man who could kneel in a pew one morning and bury someone alive that night.
Afraid?
“Of what?” I demand. “The IRS?”
Miguel doesn’t smile.
“Of his sons.”
The words wrap around my heart and squeeze.
Of his blood.
Of me.Of Dante.Of Romeo.
Of the weapons he sharpened, and then couldn’t control.
Of the fact that monsters don’t raise children.
They manufacture heirs.
I step down without realizing it.
Boot to marble.
The sound snaps through my skull like bone.
“He thought one of us would kill him,” I whisper.
Miguel doesn’t deny it.
“He believed it was inevitable,” he says. “That power rots eventually. That blood always circles back. That he raised men instead of sons—and men crave crowns.”
I drag a hand down my face slowly.
THE KING WILL DIE BY A SON’S HAND.
My father wrote it like a grocery list.
Not a prophecy.
Planning.
“Did he say when?” I ask.
Miguel shakes his head.
“Only that he could feel it near.”
“Did he say who?”
Miguel hesitates.
Just long enough.
My pulse slams.
Once.Twice.
