Page 20

Dante

“WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU DONE?!” Sinclair roared into the cavernous space.

I spun around; my gun, cold steel biting into my palm, trained on Sinclair. Every nerve ending in my body screamed a symphony of rage and grief. His face, a mask of smug complacency, was a canvas of every betrayal, every heartbreak, every stolen moment of peace. He’d orchestrated it all, a puppet master pulling the strings of my life, twisting me into knots of despair. He’d never flinched, never relented, always finding new, ingenious ways to torment me, to break me.

But this... this was the end.

Never again would I let him torment my life.

“I’m cleaning up your fucking mess,” I hissed, my words dripping with bitterness, “and I’m taking my husband home.” My voice was a low growl, a promise etched in ice. My legs felt rooted to the floor, a defiance burning in my gut, despite the tremor of uncertainty that gnawed at my composure. Danny lay at my feet, a broken bird, his breath ragged and shallow.

I wouldn’t give Sinclair the satisfaction of seeing my fear.

I had to play strong.

“You stupid fool!” Sinclair spat, his voice a slithering viper’s hiss. “Do you know who her father is?” The emphasis on the possessive pronoun was a calculated jab, a reminder of the power he wielded.

“I don’t give a single goddamn fuck,” I snarled, my gaze unwavering. The cold steel of my gun felt reassuringly heavy in my hand. “You brought her here. You explain. And I’m leaving, with or without your cooperation.”

“You are not going anywhere, Dante”—Sinclair’s tone dropped to a chilling growl, laced with a predatory glee—“and neither is Sypher. Not until he tells me what I want to know.”

His name, Sypher—Danny’s alias—was a bitter pill to swallow.

This wasn’t just about Danny anymore; it was about the years of manipulation, the decades of carefully laid plans.

“Try and stop me,” I challenged, my voice tight with barely suppressed fury.

I kicked Danny’s jeans closer, the rough fabric grating against my shoes. My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. My gun remained steady, a cold comfort against the rising tide of panic. “Get dressed, Danny. Now.”

The urgency in my voice was genuine, fueled by a desperate hope that I wouldn’t fail him in his moment of greatest need. Sinclair, with his chilling smile, was a predator I wouldn’t hesitate to kill.

“Put the gun down, Dante.” Sinclair’s command, a malice hiss laced with the stale reek of expensive bourbon, slithered across the room. The familiar dominance, once a chilling weight on my chest, now felt like a fly buzzing around my ears—irritating, but insignificant. His power, the cruel game he’d played with my life for years, was finally broken.

Tonight, I was reclaiming the life he’d stolen, piece by bloody piece.

“Take another step, Sinclair,” I snarled, the metallic tang of blood already blooming on my tongue, a taste of the vengeance I craved. “And I swear to God, I’ll blow your fucking head clean off.”

He smirked, a cruel, predatory grin that exposed sickeningly white teeth.

The flickering candlelight caught the gleam of malevolence in his eyes, eyes that had once held a twisted paternal affection, now only reflected the cold certainty of his impending demise.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he breathed, his words thick with disbelief.

“Oh, you think not?” My grin was feral, mirroring his, but born of something far darker.

The roar of the gunshot ripped through the suffocating silence of the room, a deafening crack that echoed the shattering of my past.

Sinclair crumpled, a grotesque marionette whose strings had been brutally severed. The crimson blossom on his shirt was a macabre flower, its petals unfolding in slow motion as his hands clawed at the wound, a desperate attempt to staunch the torrent. The coppery tang of his blood filled the air, mingled with the acrid scent of gunpowder.

With a swift, practiced move, I tucked my weapon away, its solidity a familiar comfort against my skin. Danny, his skin clammy and pale under the flickering candlelight, remained sprawled on the floor, a whimpering, broken thing. His nakedness felt obscene, a stark reminder of the violation he’d suffered.

The sight twisted a fresh wave of fury through me, fueling my desperate need to get him away from this blood-soaked nightmare. I shoved his jeans onto his trembling legs, the rough denim a harsh contrast against his skin. His mumbled words were a broken symphony of terror, lost in the cacophony of my racing thoughts.

I forced his shirt and boots on, each movement enacted with brutal urgency.

His arm felt slight and fragile beneath mine as I heaved him to his feet, a broken bird in my arms.

Sinclair’s voice, ragged and barely audible, cut through my grim concentration.

“This... isn’t... over,” he gasped, his face a mask of white and red.

I looked down at the man who had once been my father, who had twisted my childhood into a living hell. A cold satisfaction flooded my veins as I smiled, a chilling, triumphant smile. “It already is,” I whispered, the words as sharp and final as the bullet swirling around in his gut.