His jaw tightened.
“One word.”
“And I end it.”
“Right here.”
“Right now.”
My heart pounded violently.
He meant it.
He would do it.
I stared at him — at the man who once commanded armies and controlled entire criminal networks — now kneeling before me, offering his pulse as payment.
Then my gaze drifted.
To the Moses basket.
Our daughter slept peacefully.
Tiny chest rising.
Fists curled.
Oblivious to the storm raging around her.
What would I tell her one day?
That her father died because I ordered it?
That I forced him to carve his own punishment in front of me?
That I made her grow up without a father out of vengeance?
My throat closed.
The anger inside me collided with something else.
Responsibility.
Mercy.
Fear.
My voice came out small.
Shattered.
“An eye,” I whispered.
His brow furrowed.
“What?”
“Take one.”
