The warmth of Melissa's breath still lingered on my skin when the knock came—*hard, urgent, three rapid thuds* that shattered the quiet like gunfire. We froze mid-talk, her fingers tightening around the glass.
My men knew better than to interrupt unless hell itself was clawing at the gates. *Santino should've handled this.*
I rose, every muscle coiled. Melissa shadowed me to the door, her presence a soft weight against my back as I turned the brass knob.
Outside, one of my men stood gasping, sweat beading his temple. "Boss, I—" He froze, spotting Melissa behind me, eyes darting to me for permission. I refused to let him speak in front of her.
I turned, hands firm on Melissa's hips. "Important business, *tesoro*. To keep you safe."
"But Christian, I—" she protested.
I brushed a stray curl from her face. "Don't worry for me. This is my world since I was born… but now I have heaven to return to."
She furrowed her brows, fist clenched at her chin as if wrestling with acceptance. "Okay… but promise you'll come back soon. I get lonely fast."
I pressed my lips to her forehead, inhaling the wildflower scent of her shampoo, protectiveness surging through me. "Sleep in my bed. You'll wake up wrapped in my arms."
"Then I'll dress… *appropriately*," she teased, fear trembling beneath her smile. "I trust you."
She ascended the stairs. No glance back—*good girl*—though I felt the weight of her hesitation in every step.
The man spoke instantly: "Three men shot up the gate, threatened guards. We beat them bloody—one of them survived, held at gunpoint in the gatehouse. Your father sent them."
*Father.* Rage detonated in my veins. *What does that bastard want now?* First, raiding Savoy's properties; now targeting *me*? His man will be lucky to leave with their fingers.
I sprinted to the car. The man followed. "No. Guard the house. Protect *her*," I commanded, peeling onto the road.
Marco. My monstrous father. A leech never sated on blood. He'd smelled peace and spat chaos. If I couldn't curb Savoy's vengeance now, the city would drown in war. Their feud was eternal—but I knew the truth. *Marco* lit the fuse.
The cruelest man alive. He'd begun as a Savoy hitman, clawing up the ranks by taking *any* job—murder, torture, no victim too young or weak. His name made even the five families shudder.
Every family had lost someone to his madness long before he built his syndicate. He *reveled* in suffering. I experienced it firsthand.
*My mother…*
I wasn't entirely honest with Melissa. I remember that night vividly: seven years old. Mother snatched me at midnight—still in her nightgown, barefoot, mascara streaked from hours of crying after Father publicly humiliated her, slapping her for spilling coffee as she served his guests.
He treated her like a slave. "Promoted from bitch to housedog," he'd sneer. "I'll have my men take turns fucking you until you wound up crippled."
She hated me for it—for his killer eyes in my face, his dark aura. "You're a beast to be! His dirty seed." she'd scream, pinning me down, hands on my throat. "I won't let you grow!" But she never finished.
Terrified. Submissive to him always… until that night.
She took me with her—spite, maybe. Vengeance against him by stealing his heir. But I thought… she'd forgiven me. That I'd be safe in her arms again.
Until *some man* appeared at the tree line—her greasy-haired lover. *"Why's the brat here? Dump him! Marco would skin you alive for taking his son!"*
Her grip vanished. A shove between my shoulder blades sent me sprawling into mud. Tires shrieked. Headlights blinded me.
*"MAMA!"* My scream ripped through the downpour. She didn't turn. Just clutched her lover's arm, fleeing into the pines.
The black Cadillac stopped inches from crushing my legs. Father emerged, smelling of cigars and bourbon. He yanked me up by my hair.
"Where the fuck is she?"
I couldn't answer.
He hurled me into the car. "Stop crying or I'll smack you!" Thunder drowned his roar.
I didn't care. I huddled in the seat, numb from her betrayal. Then his voice softened: "Just tell me where she went, kid. Woods are dangerous."
I pointed down the forest road where they went. He spotted her—a pale figure in headlights. He accelerated, ramming her down. She crumpled screaming, leg twisted.
*"MAMA!"* I scrambled, grabbing my father's arm as he snatched a tire iron, but his fist exploded against my nose, hot copper flooding my throat.
Lightning flashed as he hefted the tire iron. I saw his shadow rise… fall… rise… fall… the wet, pulping sounds swallowed by thunder as he bashed her head in.
*Did I believe his lie that he wouldn't hurt her? Did my finger condemn her to death? Too innocent, too young to remember. She would've ran away and lived if I kept my hand down.*
***HONK!***
A truck's horn ripped me back. I swerved, tires screeching on asphalt, heart hammering against my ribs. Tears blurred my sight.
Then… *vanilla and wildflowers.* Melissa's scent, ghosting from my collar.
*Fuck them all.* I'd sworn to return to her.
*Breathe.*
I eased my death grip on the wheel. *Promised her.* Promised her I'd return in one piece, not in a coffin.
In our world, fathers buried sons—by their own bullets or their enemies. But Marco's grave… *his* was the one waiting to be dug. And if tradition didn't forbid it, I'd have put him six feet deep already.
For now, I'd shovel the dirt of his past myself, burying him alive so he wouldn't be a nuisance anymore.
I parked the car beneath a lamppost near the guardhouse, taking a moment to steady myself. The last thing I wanted was to let rage consume me—that would make me *like him*.
People already whispered we seemed alike. They were wrong. I was nothing like him. I could never hurt those I loved.
I sighed. He'd probably sent these goons as a sacrificial ploy, hoping to trigger my darkness. I wouldn't put it past him to play such mind games. He craved to mold me into his monstrous image.
*Let mercy be tonight's theme*, I declared silently, cocking my pistol before stepping from the Jaguar.
The guardhouse stood open, lights blazing eerily quiet. I expected the worst. Gun raised, I entered cautiously. A voice snapped my focus:
"Think it means anything?" Santino hung upside down on the sofa, cross-legged, brown hair slicked back.
His green eyes were focused on the stone wall as he studied something.
I followed his gaze: a modern painting of black-and-white chessboards twisting into mazes.
"You dragged me here for *art critique*?"
"Feels like it's saying purpose is nonsense. That life is just a pointless competition—a never-ending maze where winning means prepping for more games."
"It's a fucking money-laundering tool. Where'd you get it?"
"Probably right." Santino chuckled, righting himself. "Savoy sent it. A gift."
"Before or after Father's stunt?"
"After. Seems he's reassuring us he won't retaliate. Knows we weren't involved."
"Odd. Why extend friendship?" I flicked my nose. Sylvio was famously cunning—dealing with him meant dancing with the devil. But I trusted him more than Marco. At least he upheld reputations now that he chased legitimacy.
"Divide and conquer strategy? Afraid the bond between father and son might break his claim? Who knows how these old bosses think. But we should preserve peace. Not play into Marco's hands."
"Where's the surviving goon?"
"Getting fresh air. We tied him outside. The other two… weren't so lucky." Santino stretched, lighting a cigarette.
"They *were* the lucky ones." I brooded. "You don't know what Marco does to failures who return alive. If you don't die on the job, he hunts your family."
"Huh. And here I thought *I* was ruthless."
*Mercy. Tonight's theme.* I walked outside. Night wind billowed my suit. There he knelt—blindfolded, surrendered.
I pressed the gun to his skull. The shot cracked through silence; blood seeped into grass.
"Santino. Send his family tickets to the Bahamas. Just in case."