And then it happens.
The bastard pisses himself.
The sharp, acrid scent hits the air, cutting through the metallic tang of blood and dust.The last shred of pride leaking out of him, soaking the floor beneath his knees.
My father stares down at him, lips curled in disgust.He shakes his head slowly, like he’s looking at roadkill that used to mean something.
“Pathetic,” he mutters, not even looking at him anymore, as if the sight alone offends him.Then he turns to face me and gives a single nod.
The men don’t hesitate.
They haul me to my feet.Their hands clamping down on my arms so tight I swear I can feel bone scrape against bone.Pain rips through my shoulders, a deep, dragging throb, but I bite it down.I don’t give them the satisfaction.I keep my eyes locked on my father.
Cold.
Unflinching.
Exactly how he trained me.
But not for the reasons he ever fucking understood.
The stench of piss still clings to the air, thick and sour.Leaking from the broken shell of Emery’s father, who’s collapsed in a quivering heap at his feet.The man who once held power in his fists now trembles like a kicked dog, too far gone to even lift his head.
My father stares down at him, disgust carved deep into every cruel line of his face.He doesn’t rush.Doesn’t speak.Just stands there, letting the man at his feet feel every second of it.
Then, slowly, he lifts the gun.No warning.Just the cold certainty of a man who’s done this too many times to pretend it means something anymore.
“You’re a waste of fucking breath,” he says, almost bored.As if the man groveling at his feet is just another name to strike off the books.
He shifts the barrel, tilting it slightly, and presses it to the side of the traitor’s head.Not centered.Not clean.Cruel.
Dante jerks, flinching like he still thinks there’s room for mercy.His eyes go wide.Pure panic, glistening with tears.His breath hitches, shaky and broken, chest rising in shallow bursts as the finality of it sinks in.
“Please—” he chokes, the word collapsing out of him as though it might save his life.
My father doesn’t flinch.No hesitation, no second thoughts.He just pulls the trigger.
The gunshot tears through the silence, a brutal, deafening crack that ricochets off the walls and punches straight through the moment.A scream made of smoke and steel, ripping the air apart.
Blood sprays across the concrete… hot, violent, final.It splatters his shoes.Paints the floor.
Dante drops instantly, his body collapsing with a dull thud, eyes wide open but already empty.
My father exhales through his nose, calm as ever, like he just took out the trash.
“You see that, Matteo?”
His voice rings out, calm and cruel as he turns toward me slowly.The gun is still in his hand, smoke curling lazily from the barrel as if it’s the ghost of a prayer no one ever bothered to answer.
“This is what weakness gets you,” he says, gesturing to the lifeless heap bleeding out on the concrete.“A bullet.On your knees.Covered in your own fucking shame.”
The words slip from my mouth before I can stop them, laced with every ounce of hate I’ve swallowed for years.“Better fucking dead than crawling at your feet.”
His smile vanishes.Just snaps off his face like a switch.
In one swift, lethal move, he closes the distance—faster than I can brace.He grabs me by the collar, yanking me forward like I’m still some kid he can drag into line.Then he slams the gun into my head, hard, a crack of bone against steel that rattles straight through my skull.
His men tighten their grip, clamping down on my arms and pushing my knees back onto the floor.Their fists dig into my biceps, crushing down with all the force of men who think pain is the language I’ll finally understand.
