Dead.
He’s dead.
The gun slips from my fingers, clatters to the floor.
I stare at Sokolov’s body. At what’s left of his face. At the blood pooling beneath him, spreading across the concrete in a dark, lazy tide.
I should feel something. Relief or satisfaction that justice has been served on the man who murdered my brother.
But there’s nothing.
Not even guilt for taking a life.
I feel…
Empty.
A hollow, aching emptiness where the rage used to live.
Marco is still dead. Shooting Sokolov doesn’t change that. It doesn’t bring him back or erase six months of grief that has been eating me alive.
My hands won't stop shaking. I look down at them and barely recognize them as my own. They’re covered in blood, some of it my own, leaking from split knuckles, some of it Sokolov’s from when I beat him.
These hands just took a life.
I stare at them like they belong to someone else. Like I’m watching this happen from very far away.
“Luca.”
Enzo’s voice. It’s close. I turn, and he’s right there.
“I killed him,” I say stupidly. Like he didn’t just watch me do it. “I actually killed him.”
Enzo steps closer, and his hands come up to cup my face. His thumbs caress my cheeks, impossibly gentle despite the carnage we’re standing in.
“You did good, baby.”
The endearment shatters something inside me.
I’m falling apart. Actually, literally falling apart. My knees buckle, and my chest caves in as the wall I’ve been holding up for six months starts crumbling into dust.
Enzo catches me before I hit the ground. His arms wrap around me, and he pulls me against him. Lets me collapse into him.
I’m not crying. I tell myself that firmly. I’m not.
The wet streaks sliding down my cheeks aren’t tears; they’re just the violence finally leaking out of my system.
I just need to breathe.
Just need to breathe.
But my lungs won’t cooperate. The air keeps catching in my throat, and I’m shaking so hard I can hear my teeth rattle.
“It’s okay,” Enzo murmurs into my hair, his breath warm against my temple. One hand moves down my back in a slow, grounding stroke, over and over. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
“It doesn’t—” My voice breaks on a sob. “It doesn’t feel how I thought it would. It doesn’t feel good.”
“No. It never does.” His honesty is brutal and kind all at once. “But it’s done.”
