In one smooth motion, I let the Beretta fall from my hand.
It hit the rocks with a metallic crack, bounced once, then spun into the underbrush where it disappeared from sight.
His eyes followed it.
Confusion flickered.
Then something worse. Understanding.
Slowly, I reached behind me, fingers finding the familiar weight at the small of my back.
The dagger slid free with a soft, intimate whisper.
Carbon steel. Balanced. Perfect.
The blade caught the pale mountain light, gleaming with quiet promise. The handle—worn smooth from years of use—fit into my palm like it had been carved for me alone.
This was never meant to be quick.
My thumb nudged the leather sheath loose, letting it fall soundlessly to the ground.
I crouched in front of him.
Close.
Close enough to smell him.
Fear had a scent—sharp, sour, laced with something metallic. It clung to his skin, mixed with the faint ghost of expensive cologne he’d probably worn for the wedding.
How fitting.
With my free hand, I grabbed the edge of the tape sealing his mouth and tore it away in one brutal motion.
The sound tore through the air.
He gasped, a broken hiss escaping his lips as skin came away with the adhesive. His head jerked forward, breath shuddering in his chest like he had forgotten how to use his lungs.
“Vincenzo—”
My name cracked in his mouth.
Weak. Desperate. Wrong.
“Figlio mio, listen—” he rushed, words tumbling over each other, tripping in their urgency. “I know... I know we’ve growndistant. Things—things were not handled as they should have been. But I—”
His voice faltered under my gaze.
“I know I failed you,” he pushed on, faster now, grasping for something—anything—that might still save him. “When those bastards took you—when they—” His throat tightened. “The torture... the scars... you think I don’t remember? I fought for you. I pulled every string. I burned half the world to bring you back.”
A beat.
His eyes searched mine.
Looking for something.
Recognition. Gratitude. Weakness.
He found nothing.
