"Do it," I command softly.
Arthur completely freezes, his thumb trembling over the screen. "What?"
"I said, do it," I repeat, my voice dropping into a dark, demonic hum. I step completely out of the shadow of my men, pulling Sybil with me until we are standing entirely exposed in the center of the crossfire. "Hit the button, Arthur. Send the files to the feds."
"You're bluffing," Arthur stammers, sweating profusely despite the freezing rain. "You will spend the rest of your life in a supermax prison."
"I don't bluff," I snarl, my patience entirely evaporating. "I built this empire to protect her. If the federal government wants to come for me, let them come. I have enough money, enough safehouses, and enough men to keep her hidden for the next fifty years. I will burn the Thorne Syndicate to the ground myself if it means I get to watch you die tonight."
Arthur’s eyes dart frantically around the railyard. He looks at the Commission guards, but they are suddenly hesitating. They were paid to protect a man with leverage. They were not paid to engage in a suicidal firefight with a Don who is completely willing to kamikaze his own empire just to settle a vendetta.
"You wouldn't," Arthur whispers, the last, pathetic denial of a broken man.
I release Sybil’s waist. I step forward, entirely closing the remaining distance.
I do not draw a weapon. I do not order Dante to fire.
The absolute, visceral need to end this pathetic excuse for a man with my own two hands completely overrides any tactical logic.
Arthur panics. He drops the satellite phone into the mud, reaching frantically for the silver revolver tucked into his waistband.
He is far too slow.
I cross the final five yards in a violent, terrifying blur of motion. I ignore the excruciating, blinding scream of my torn left shoulder. I launch my massive frame forward, my right hand shooting out like a striking viper.
My fingers wrap around Arthur’s throat before he can even clear the barrel of his gun from his holster.
I hit him with the force of a freight train, driving him backward. His spine collides with the rusted, heavy iron wheels of a derailed train car with a sickening, bone-crushingcrack. The revolver slips from his fingers, clattering uselessly into the gravel.
"Don Thorne! Stand down!" the lead Commission guard screams, stepping forward, his rifle aimed directly at my back.
"Take one more step and I will blow your fucking head off!" Dante roars, stepping directly into the line of fire, shielding my back, his men instantly fanning out, establishing absolute fire superiority.
The standoff holds, suspended by a fragile thread of mutual assured destruction.
I ignore the guns completely. My entire universe narrows down to the pathetic, wheezing man pinned beneath my hand.
I lift Arthur three inches off the ground, my thick fingers digging brutally into his windpipe. His eyes bulge, his hands frantically clawing at my forearm, desperately trying to break the iron grip that is completely crushing his trachea.
"You traded her," I whisper, my face hovering mere inches from his, my pale gray eyes burning with a dark, soulless void. "You locked her in the dark. You made her flinch at her own shadow. You broke the most beautiful thing in this world, Arthur."
"P-please," Arthur gurgles, blood spilling from his lips, his face turning a deep, terrifying shade of bruised purple.
"And then," I hiss, leaning closer, my breath washing over his dying face, "you tried to take her from me."
I do not snap his neck instantly. I want him to feel the life completely bleed out of his miserable body. I want him to look into the eyes of the monster he created and know that his daughter belongs to the devil.
I increase the pressure. Slowly. Agonizingly. The cartilage in his throat begins to give way, a sickening, wet crunching sound that vibrates directly up my arm.
Arthur’s frantic struggles begin to weaken. His eyes roll back in his head. The pathetic, cowardly light of his soul completely extinguishes.
His body goes entirely limp, a dead, heavy weight suspended only by the brutal force of my grip.
I hold him there for three more seconds, ensuring the absolute finality of his death. Then, with a profound, terrifying sense of disgust, I open my hand.
Arthur Vance’s corpse collapses into the mud, completely discarded in the freezing rain.
I turn around.
