Page 174 of Buried in Blood

His jaw clenches. His fingers curl into fists.

And then—

BANG.

50

Dante

The shot rings out.

Time fractures.

And Damien crumples.

Chest first. Right over the stone path like a toppled statue, blood pumping from the hole where his heart used to lie—if the bastard ever had one.

I lower the gun.

The silence that follows is thick. It clings to my skin. Smells like cordite and vengeance.

He doesn’t speak.

Not this time.

He can’t.

I killed him.

I walk toward him slowly, the barrel still warm in my hand. Each step feels like justice dragging its feet across a war zone. His fingers twitch against the earth—just once—like even Death isn’t sure it wants him.

I stand over the body.

Damien fucking Crowe.

The monster who called young girls lambs and cages homes.

The brother who burned everything he touched and then laughed while we screamed.

I spit on him.

Right between the eyes.

“You never fucking mattered,” I say, my voice sharp and low. “Not to Lucien. Not to me. Not to anyone.”

He gurgles—tries to say something—but all I hear is blood.

So I raise my boot and bring it down.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

Stomping his pathetic fucking face in until what’s left isn’t a man.

Just a stain. A stain of fucking sin. Forever fucking silenced. Buried in fucking blood.