And tonight, I still have one more obligation to fulfill.
Chapter Ten
Khai
My father doesn’t summon people.
He expects them to arrive already fractured into obedience.
By the time I pull up to the gates of his estate, the house beyond them is lit like a cathedral, every window glowing, every shadow alert and waiting. The iron gates slide shut behind me with a finality that settles deep in my bones. I kill the engine but don’t move right away, sitting there longer than necessary, reminding myself that in this family fear and respect are indistinguishable.
The fifteen missed calls weren’t concern.
They were a warning.
Inside, the house greets me with its familiar chill, polished floors, hollow silence, an absence of warmth masquerading as luxury. My boots carry me forward without conscious thought, down the long corridor toward his office. Each step echoes, measured and deliberate, like the countdown to an execution.
I don’t bother knocking.
He’s seated behind his desk, eyes fixed on the glow of his computer screen, posture relaxed in a way that’s never accidental. He doesn’t look up when I enter. He doesn’t need to.
“I don’t like waiting, boy.”
The word scrapes down my spine, grinds against bone.Boy.I’m thirty years old, built my own empire with blood and teeth, and still, he wields that single word like a leash, reminding me that to him, I will always be something beneath his heel. Something shaped, owned, and corrected at will.
I say nothing.
Silence has always been the only rebellion he tolerates.
“I was busy,” I finally say through clenched teeth. My hands curl at my sides, fingers digging into my palms until my nails carve half-moons into my skin. Pain is grounding. Necessary.
“I don’t care about your personal distractions,” he replies coolly, still refusing to look at me. “You answer to me. When I call, I expect obedience.”
He pauses, then adds, “We lost an important job because of your selfishness.”
A bitter laugh scrapes up my throat. “You meanyoulost a payout,” I snap. “I’m the one who does your dirty work. I’m the one who gets blood on his hands while you sit behind that desk, an old man barking orders like a king with no battlefield.”
I lift my chin a fraction higher, forcing myself to stay still. To stay contained. One wrong move and I’ll explode.
That’s when he finally looks up.
Pure rage burns in his eyes, cold, calculated, familiar. His jaw locks tight as his hands curl into fists atop the desk. Slowly, deliberately, he plants his palms down and rises from his chair, letting it roll back with a soft, ominous scrape. His gaze drops, skimming the surface of the desk, darting from object to object like he’s weighing his options.
Then his hand closes around something.
And in the blink of an eye, it’s airborne, hurtling toward me with all the force of his fury.
I shift just enough.
Not fast enough to escape it entirely.
The knife slices past me, the blade kissing my shoulder in a line of fire before embedding itself deep into the oak door behind me with a viciousthud. The impact rattles the room, the sound lingering like a held breath.
My gaze drops briefly to the blood seeping through my shirt, warm, real, before lifting back to him. The world narrows, vision tunnelling until there’s nothing left but the man who made me this way.
My hand moves on instinct. Muscle memory. Survival.
I draw the gun from the back of my pants and level it at his head, arm steady despite the pulse roaring in my ears. “Throw something else at me, old man,” I snarl. “I dare you.”
