His face was ashen, sweat beading on his forehead, and his breathing came in shallow, controlled bursts—like every inhale cost him.
A thin oxygen tube rested under his nose, and an ECG monitor clipped to his finger blinked with a weak but steady rhythm.
He should have been flat on his back in recovery, not walking these halls.
“Vincenzo...” The name left me in a broken whisper.
My legs felt weak again, but this time from pure disbelief.
“You— you were shot eight times. The nurse said you were stabilizing, sedated... How are you even standing?”
He didn’t answer right away.
One hand pressed lightly against the bandaged wound on his ribs, while the other held a plain black box—small, no larger than a shoebox—cradled as though it contained something dangerous.
His eyes, dark and unreadable, met mine for just a fraction of a second before he lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet like some obscene jewel, was Violet’s severed head.
Blood still glistened along the ragged, brutal edge of her neck, fresh enough that a few thick drops slid lazily down the velvet lining and pooled at the bottom of the box.
Her eyes were wide open—glassy, bulging, frozen forever in a final, silent scream of terror.
The cut was disturbingly clean in places, almost surgical, yet savage in others where flesh and tendon had torn.
Her once-perfect lips were parted, skin pale and waxy under the harsh hospital lights.
The sight hit me like a physical blow.
My stomach lurched violently.
I staggered back, one hand flying to my mouth as bile surged up my throat.
A strangled sound—half-gasp, half-sob—tore from my chest.
The room spun.
I could smell it: the metallic tang of fresh blood mixed with something darker, fouler.
My legs threatened to buckle again, but I forced myself to stay upright, eyes locked on the grotesque trophy in his hands.
This was what I had asked for.
I had thrown the demand at him like a weapon, testing him, never truly believing he would deliver.
Yet here it was—proof that every word of apology, every promise to be better, had been backed by blood.
“I... I didn’t know you could...” I stuttered, words failing me entirely. “...You would...”
“She wanted to die of heart disease,” he said flatly, his tone eerily calm, almost casual, “so badly anyway. Month after month, feeding her lie, pretending she was fragile and sick—she got what she wanted.”
He closed the lid with the same controlled reverence he might have used to shut a briefcase, eyes locked on mine as if the act itself required no justification.
“Now,” he continued, voice softening, a strange warmth threading through the edge of it, “nothing stands between us. Elena—we can finally be a real family. Can’t we?”
I stared at the closed box, unable to articulate anything.
My mind churned, heart hammering violently.
