My voice is rough. "Then, ask one of your sons to do it."
"You've killed hundreds of men?—"
"Not you!" The words explode out of me. "I can't kill you. You're the only—" I stop myself. I've been telling myself I couldn't kill Antonio because I'm not ready to take over the family, but I'm also not lining up to kill the man who raised me.
"The only what?"
Father. The only father I've ever really had. Mine died before I could form long-term memories, and Antonio took that place.
But I don't say it. Can't.
Antonio's face softens. "Sit down, boy."
I sit again, feeling like that twelve-year-old kid who showed up covered in blood, trembling and scared.
"I know this is hard," Antonio says quietly. "But I need you to be strong. For me. For the family."
"Asking me to murder you isn't strength. It's—" I run my hands through my hair. "I won't do it."
He's quiet for a long moment. "Alright. But when it gets bad, when I can't take it anymore, I'll do it myself. And you'll live with knowing you could have spared me the indignity of fumbling with a trigger while I'm too weak to hold the gun steady."
The image makes me sick.
"We're not having this conversation again."
He coughs again, more blood. When he catches his breath, he blinks hard. Confused. "Where's Martina? She should be here."
Martina. My aunt. Dead for fifteen years.
"Uncle—"
"She needs to know about the meeting. The Morozovs are coming, and she needs to—" He stops, blinks harder. Shakes his head like he's trying to clear it. "No. No, that's not right. Martina is…"
"Gone," I finish softly. "She's gone."
His face crumples. Not with grief but with frustration. "I know that. Of course I know that. Why would you—" He stops himself, pressing his palms against his temples. "My mind is going. The cancer's in my brain now. Did I tell you that?"
"No." The nurse did. We're on hospice care. It's only a matter of time. Only God knows when. They don't think Antonio will even live long enough to suffer more indignity. That's why I won't pull the trigger. At least, that's what I tell myself to ease the guilt. It'll all be over soon anyway.
I'm cold-blooded. I'd kill almost anyone in an instant. Hell, even my cousins, his sons, would end up dead if it served my goals.
And yet…
I can't kill Antonio. This is my line. My limit.
Even if he can't respect it.
He shakes his head again, and I can see him fighting to focus. To stay present. For a moment, his eyes clear. He's back. Fully Antonio again.
"The girl," he says, voice sharp once more. "Your wife. She's still not pregnant."
I tense. "It's only been six months?—"
"Six months is enough to know." His voice has gone cold. Clinical. "She's infertile. Barren. A curse on this family." He slips out of focus, slightly. "Her mother knew. That bitch always wanted to put me in my place."
"Don't." My tone is sharp. "Don't talk about her like that."
"It's the truth." He waves a dismissive hand. "You need to set her aside. Get an annulment. Find a woman who can actually give you an heir. A man without a son is weakness."
