And there he is.
Luca LaRiccia stands backlit in the threshold, a dark silhouette framed by the pale fluorescent light spilling in from the hallway beyond. The contrast makes it impossible to see his face clearly—just the outline of broad shoulders, the sharp line of his silver hair, the stillness of a man who has never needed to rush.
He doesn't move. Doesn't speak.
Just stands there, waiting.
"I like that about you," I croak.
He huffs a laugh. It's the sound a man makes when he's already decided you're dead but finds your persistence mildly entertaining. "Like what about me, Giovanni?"
"How you can wait things out." I shift my weight, testing my balance.
The room tilts dangerously before settling back into place. My ribs scream in protest as I reach for the granite examination counter in the middle of the vault.
"I was counting on this preference of yours, actually. This... patience of yours." I grip the edge harder, knuckles going white as I find Luca's eyes.
Not green. Not blue. Something stranger, more unnatural than either. A weird yellow-brown that shifts depending on the light—amber one moment, almost gold the next, like something you'd see in a predator's skull mounted on a wall.
"Well?" he asks, voice perfectly conversational as he reaches down to his side holster and withdraws a Ruger with the casualefficiency of a man who's done this a thousand times before. He checks the chamber with practiced fingers, the metallic click of the slide echoing in the space. "What is it? What could you possibly have to say to me, Giovanni?"
Those strange amber-gold eyes lift from the weapon to pin me in place. "Did you come here to beg? To plead for your miserable life? Because I know what you did. I know exactly what you did."
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with certainty and threat.
I shake my head slowly, the movement sending fresh waves of pain through my skull and causing the world to tilt dangerously for a second. "No, Luca." I use his first name deliberately, not out of disrespect or some foolish attempt at intimidation, but from a place of familiarity.
Because whether he realizes it yet or not, whether he's ready to acknowledge what's coming, we are familiar now. Connected by something he doesn't understand yet. "Youthinkyou know."
Blood pools hot and metallic in my mouth from some cut. I spit it onto the floor between us because if I swallow any more of it, I'll probably puke, and I refuse to show that kind of weakness.
Not here. Not now. Not in this moment.
A moment that we'll remember forever. One that will be told in stories for generations to come.
I get to the point. "But… you're right."
His eyes squint. "Yeah? What am I right about, Giovanni?"
"I killed Rico." It comes out deadpan. But I keep going with urgency. Because he's about half a second from blowing my brains out. "He killed my woman, Luca. He broke into my fucking house andkilled my woman!" I yell these words.
All the emotion I never show, comes out here. Right now.
"Heraped her." I spit on the ground again, leaning in to this confession with everything I've got. "Your son was a pieceof fucking shit. A worthless fucking addict with no self control. A sadist—of the worst kind, I might add. He was a psychopathic torturer with no business skills, no people skills, and nodiscretion. He was your only child, your sole heir. And I blew his fucking brains out and buried his body out in Bucks County."
Luca raises the gun, points it at me, steps forward until the barrel is pressing against my forehead.
"You can do that," I say, my voice steady despite the cold metal pressed against my skull. Still looking him dead in the eyes. Refusing to blink. Refusing to flinch. "You can pull that trigger right now. Get your fucking revenge. God knows, I owe you, don't I?"
I pause just long enough to let the weight of that question settle between us.
"First my aunt—your wife—spreads her legs for your associate. Humiliates you in front of the entire organization." I lower my voice. "Then little Giovanni Bavga escapes his sacrifice ritual when he should've died quiet and convenient in that warehouse. Should've been the price that paid for Arianna Bavga's disrespect."
I lean forward slightly, pushing my forehead harder against the barrel.
"Which brings us to this moment right now." My voice is casual, almost conversational. "Now that same little Giovanni Bavga is standing here, in your basement vault, in the heart of your fucking empire, telling you—confessing to you—that he blew your son's head off."
I let that hang in the air for a beat.
