Chapter 4 - The Night of the Long Knives
I moved through the mansion like a shadow. Antonio had been in the guest wing for the past week, ostensibly to "support" me. I didn't wake my guards; I couldn't trust them. I trusted only the silence.
I entered his room, my gun drawn.
He was sitting at the vanity, calmly cleaning his fingernails with a small, silver blade. He didn't look surprised.
“You’re late, brother,” Antonio said, not turning around. “I thought you’d figure it out after the girl showed up with the charm.”
“You killed her,” I said, the words coming out as a strained, guttural sound. “You killed Elena.”
Antonio turned, his smile thin and cruel. “I removed an obstacle. She was going to take Isabella and disappear to Europe. I couldn't let the legacy walk out the door.”
He stood, his movements fluid and practiced. He had always been better with a blade than me. “The Morettis were fools, but they were efficient. It’s a shame you spent so much energy burning them, Lorenzo. It was so easy to manipulate your rage.”
I fired.
He moved with supernatural speed, flipping the vanity table to block the shot. The room exploded into a blur of gunfire and splintering wood. We were mirror images, two sides of the same violent coin, but he had something I lacked: he didn't care if the house burned down with us inside.
As we fought, the sound of a scream echoed from the hallway.
Isabella.
I lunged for the door, but Antonio intercepted me, his blade grazing my shoulder. I slammed him into the wall, the force cracking the stone, and I didn't stop until his breathing stopped.
I didn't stay to watch him die. I ran to the hallway.
Sophia and Emma were there, shielding Isabella, who was standing.
She was standing, her eyes locked on me, her hands trembling as she held the silver charm.
May you like
“He’s gone, Papa,” Isabella whispered.
The weight of the last three years finally shattered, leaving behind nothing but the cold, hard truth of what we were.
