Cold slides through my veins.
Not fear.Precision.
A third comes at me with a pipe raised high, haloed by flickering light like some warped saint armed with faith in steel.
I duck. Metal scythes air where my head was. My hand snaps up, seizing the pipe mid-arc. Rust bites my palm, heat flaring,but I flip the weight and bury it in his ribs—once, twice—until cartilage caves and his breath explodes out of him in a sucked-in scream.
Then I bring it up.
And across.
The impact rings through my arms.
He folds sideways, mouth working like he wants to apologize to God and can’t find the words.
I don’t give him time.
I never give them time.
Every movement becomes a prayer now.
Not to God.To survive.
I move through them with Giovanni’s hands ghosting over mine, correcting my stance in a shooting gallery under stained glass. Like I was born for churches and coffins in equal measure. Like a blade stitched into vestments.
A fourth tries to flank me.
I throw the pipe and hear it meet face with a wet, hollow thud. He topples into a crate and disappears behind it with the sound of a sack of meat hitting the floor.
Breath.
Slow.
Control.
I feel nothing.
That’s how I know I’m dangerous.
This is the version of me I starved inside confessionals.The son of a king fed on blood instead of lullabies.The student of a killer who learned mercy is a privilege.The heir who finally stopped pretending holiness saves anyone.
I step over the first guard’s twitching body and wrench the fallen gun from the floor. Checked the chamber from muscle memory.
Loaded.
Of course, it is.
I level the gun just as another man stumbles out from behind a forklift, eyes blown wide, mouth open, panic inked all over his face. He’s younger than the rest. Twenty, maybe. A boy trying to be a corpse in a world that eats kids for breakfast.
“Please—” he starts.
I don’t let him finish.
One clean shot.
He drops like God cut the strings.
The echo hangs longer than the smoke.
