Page 47

Dante

My blood ran cold, a slick, icy river coursing through my veins. The metallic scent of the gun, sharp and acrid, filled the air as Jane, a whirlwind of manic energy, pirouetted through Sinclair’s opulent house. Her laughter—a rasping, guttural sound that scraped against my soul—echoed off the polished mahogany, each syllable a venomous barb.

“My, my. Fatherhood has done wonders for your disposition,” she sneered, pointing her gun at me. “Tell me, Dante. Have you told your daughter that because of you, her mother is dead?”

Her face, a porcelain mask of icy malice, still clawed at the edges of my sleep. For years, she’d haunted my nightmares. The rasp of her laughter—a dry, guttural sound like stones grinding together—echoing in the hollows of my skull, even now. I remembered the metallic tang of blood, the coppery taste of fear that clung to my memory like a shroud. I could still feel the cold, brutal press of the gun barrel against my temple, the chilling weight of her gaze, a predator’s appraisal before the kill. Silas, his face a mask of his own terrified compliance, a ghost beside me as she forced him to rape me.

She didn’t just break Silas; she carved him open and rearranged his insides with the cruel precision of a surgeon who delighted in inflicting pain. That woman... she wasn’t merely evil; she was a masterpiece of depravity; a symphony of darkness composed of chilling calculation and exquisite cruelty. The very air around her seemed to crackle with malignant energy, a tangible evil that seeped into my bones and settled there, becoming a festering wound that refused to heal.

Sinclair moved fast, his arms wide as he stood protectively in front of me. “Enough, Jane.” His voice was a low growl that vibrated in my chest, cutting through the suffocating silence. His face, usually a mask of controlled power, was contorted with a rage so potent it felt like a physical blow. The sheer defiance in his words was a fragile shield against the storm brewing before him.

He knew her, understood the bottomless pit of her madness. Yet I could clearly see the subtle shake of his body, tight with tension, betraying the fear coursing through him. It was at that moment I saw Sin for who he truly was. Another spider in her venomous nest, another fly caught in her silken, suffocating web. But the truth, a rancid stench that clawed its way into my awareness, was far more twisted. He, too, was a victim. I could taste the bitterness of it, a metallic tang on my tongue, mirroring the rusty tang of blood I felt pooling in his soul. Her recriminations weren’t just words; they were poisoned darts, each one lodging deep, festering in the marrow of his being, leaving him crippled, broken, a hollow shell of the man he once was. His struggles, I saw now, were mirrored in my own desperate fight. The frantic scrabbling for purchase on the slick, slimy walls of her prison, the suffocating weight of her lies pressing down like a tombstone—that was the horror we shared. He was still fighting, though—a ferocious, desperate struggle against the crushing weight of her depravity. The sight, the very thought of it, ignited a primal rage within me; a wildfire of fury consuming all reason. We were both trapped, drowning in the same fetid swamp of her making, clawing at the surface, gasping for air, each breath a desperate prayer to finally break free.

Jane’s voice, a silken whisper laced with venom, slithered across the room like a viper. “Shall I remind young Dante of what I’m capable of, my dear Crispin?” Her words dripped with a chilling conviction, a certainty born from desperation and a twisted sense of entitlement.

A primal urge, a dark tide surging within. I didn’t know what possessed me. But my hand shot out, fingers clamping onto the back of his shirt, the fine silk a stark contrast to the coarse wool of my own. The scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something sharp, almost metallic—assaulted my nostrils, a jarring echo of the lavender-scented soap that Sin used to rub onto my feverish skin during those childhood night terrors, his touch a fleeting anchor in the storm of my dreams. His tailored shirt, the very fabric, felt like a lifeline, pulling me back from the precipice, a raw, desperate need for the comfort of his presence. It wasn’t just comfort I craved. It was the unsettling memory of his power, a power both soothing and terrifying; the weight of years of unspoken promises, transgressions, and a bond as intricate and volatile as a viper’s nest, coiled tight around my soul. That memory tasted like ash and regret on my tongue; a bitter tang of what was and what could never be again.

Sinclair’s jaw clenched. His knuckles were bone-white as he stood resolute before me, unmoving. The muscles in his arms, corded and powerful, strained beneath his tailored suit. He was a man teetering on the brink as his carefully constructed world crumbled around him.

“Over my dead body,” he choked out, the words raw with the bitter taste of betrayal.

Jane’s grip tightened on the cold steel of the pistol; the click was deafening in the heavy silence. Her knuckles, bleached white, were slick with a sheen of sweat. “That can be easily arranged, Sinclair,” she hissed; the gun a skeletal finger pointed squarely at his heart. The scent of gunpowder, sharp and metallic, filled the air, mingling with the cloying sweetness of the expensive perfume she wore, a grotesque juxtaposition.

Sinclair’s step forward was deliberate, a calculated risk. His eyes, steely and unforgiving, met hers. A silent battle of wills fought in the space between them.

“Then do it, bitch.” His voice, though strained, held an unwavering resolve.

A flicker of doubt, a ghost of the woman she once was, crossed Jane’s face. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a steely, terrifying resolve. Her breath hitched, a ragged gasp against the backdrop of the ticking clock, a silent countdown to catastrophe. Their shared history, a tapestry of secrets and broken promises, cast a heavy, suffocating silence between them.

This was not just a confrontation; it was a reckoning.

A blur of motion—Sinclair’s desperate lunge, the metallic flash of Jane’s pistol in his grasp—became swallowed by the deafening crack that ripped through the room. The air, thick with the acrid bite of gunpowder, stung my nostrils. Silence descended, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the phantom ringing in my ears, a morbid counterpoint to the frantic thump of my own heart.

Then, the tableau: Sinclair and Jane, locked in a death stare, their breaths ragged, pupils dilated with shock and something else... a primal, terrifying understanding. The silence stretched, a taut rubber band threatening to snap.

Time fractured, each second becoming an eternity. My gut lurched as Sinclair stumbled back, his hand flying to his chest, a crimson blossom blooming across his once crisp white shirt. The rich, coppery scent of blood filled the air, a suffocating perfume of death. He crumpled to the polished floor, the hard wood echoing the finality of his fall—a chilling percussion to the silent scream trapped in my throat. The polished surface reflected the stark, malevolent gleam in Jane’s eyes. A chilling mixture of triumph and... regret? Her face, usually a mask of icy control, now revealed a flicker of something deeply disturbing beneath.

The game, it seemed, was far from over.

A cruel smile, a rictus of pure malice, stretched across Jane’s face. Her laughter, a rasping, guttural sound, like nails scraping across a chalkboard, echoed in the confined space, a symphony of depravity. The coppery tang of blood filled the air, a scent that clung to her like a second skin. Leaning over Sinclair, her shadow eclipsing him, she pressed a long, manicured finger into his chest, the pressure a searing brand. His wince, a flicker of pain in his terrified eyes, was almost imperceptible beneath the chilling calm of her gaze. She withdrew her finger, the crimson gleaming on its tip like a ruby. With a slow, deliberate movement, a gesture both theatrical and obscene, she brought it to her lips, the slick, viscous substance disappearing with a delicate, almost sensual, pop. The taste, I imagined, was the bitter sweetness of victory. Her voice, when she spoke, was a silken whisper that belied the monstrous act. “Such a pitiful end. Wouldn’t you agree, dear Dante?”

My eyelids snapped shut. A microsecond of darkness, then a brutal eruption. The rage, a caged beast I’d been wrestling, shattered its bonds. It wasn’t a decision, nor a thought, just a visceral, primal surge. The metallic tang of blood filled my mouth—my own, I realized later, a split lip from the impact—as I hurled myself at her. Her perfume, sickly sweet and cloying, stung my nostrils even as my fingers clamped around her throat, a vise of bone and muscle. I felt the frantic, desperate flutter of her pulse beneath my grip, a frantic bird beating against my hand. The fear in her eyes, wide and panicked, was a fleeting flicker before the darkness claimed them, and the only sound left was the ragged rasp of her struggling breath, a desperate plea against the crushing weight of my fury. This wasn’t just anger; it was the cold, calculating fury of a cornered animal, a storm unleashed.

My fingers, bone-white against her throat, dug in. The silken whisper of her gasp, a pathetic counterpoint to the rasping growl in my chest, was a symphony of her impending demise. I tasted blood—metallic, sharp—a perverse communion with the suffering she’d so casually dealt out. The frantic flutter of her pulse beneath my grip was a mockery of the glacial fear she’d frozen into the hearts of her victims. This wasn’t just revenge; it was a ritual. I was reclaiming the terror she’d wielded like a weapon, forcing it back down her throat until her eyes, once glittering with cruel amusement, bulged with the same agonizing, suffocating panic she’d inflicted on the innocent. Each strangled breath she fought for was a payment—overdue and agonizingly slow—for the lives she’d shattered, the souls she’d twisted into grotesque parodies of themselves. The scent of her fear, acrid and sharp, mingled with a potent perfume of justice.

This wasn’t a woman.

She was the fucking plague, and I was its cure.

The room fell silent, the only sound the harsh rasp of my breathing and the dull thud of my heart, heavy with rage. Jane’s body lay crumpled, a grotesque puppet with its strings cut. The taste of copper filled my mouth as I remembered my lip was bleeding, a split caused by the force of my fury.

I sat there, my hands still outstretched, fingers curved as if still grasping her throat, and in that moment, I felt a strange sense of power. It was as if all the fear and anger that had been building inside me for years had finally found its release, and with it came a dark satisfaction.

Sinclair, his chest rising and falling rapidly, broke the silence. “It’s over,” he said, his voice hoarse.

I turned to him, my eyes narrowing as I took in his shaken form. He was no longer the confident, powerful man I had once known; the events of this night had stripped him of that facade. We were both damaged, forever changed by the darkness we had endured.

As I looked around the room, my gaze fell upon the gun, its metallic surface glinting in the dim light. It was then that I understood the true depth of what had transpired. This was not just an act of revenge; it was a liberation. We had broken free from Jane’s venomous web, and in doing so, we had shattered the chains that bound us to our pasts.

A bitter smile crossed my lips as I realized that sometimes destruction was the only path to freedom.

Clawing my way across the slick, blood-slicked floor, I ripped my shirt off, the rough fabric a stark contrast to the smoothness of his skin and pressed it against the gaping wound in his chest, his blood soaking it instantly.

His eyes, glazed and fading, met mine. “It’s... too... late...” he rasped, each word a labored gasp.

“Shut your goddamn mouth, Sin,” I snarled, the metallic tang of blood filling my nostrils, the stench of fear and violence thick in the air. Panic clawed at my throat, my vision blurred, and the room spun into a chaotic mess of shadows and broken furniture.

A phone. I need a fucking phone.

My fingers, slick with his blood, trembled as I frantically searched. The staccato beat of my heart was a deafening drum in my ears. Each second stretched into an eternity, the silence punctuated only by Sin’s ragged breaths, his life draining away with each horrifying cough.

“I’m... sorry...” His whisper was barely audible, lost in the rising tide of my terror.

The taste of ash and despair filled my mouth; this wasn’t how it was supposed to end.

Not like this. Not with him.

The weight of his impending death pressed down on me, crushing the last vestiges of hope.

“Please forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” I whispered.

“I loved you the only way I knew how.”

“You did your best,” I muttered, refusing to let this be our last conversation as my eyes finally found what they were looking for. “Now shut up and stay alive.”

My fingers fumbled for the cold, slick glass of my phone—a lifeline I desperately craved. But before I could dial, Sinclair was a blur of motion, a coiled viper striking. He shoved me aside, the impact as I hit the floor jarring my teeth. The deafening crack of the gunshot ripped through the silence, a sound that would forever etch itself into my soul.

I spun around, and my stomach lurched. Jane. Her eyes, glazed, lifeless pools reflecting the sickly yellow light as a tiny, crimson speck bloomed on her forehead, the source of a torrent of blood that cascaded down her pale skin. The metallic tang of it filled my nostrils, a stench that would forever cling to my memory. The clatter of the gun punctuated the sickening thud of her body hitting the floor as Sinclair collapsed too, his own form a broken heap, the life draining from him as surely as it had from her. His face, a mask of something I couldn’t quite decipher, regret? Triumph? Terror? The air thickened, heavy with the stench of blood and the ghost of our shared past, a past now brutally and violently severed.

Clawing my way back, the rough wood a sandpaper rasp against my knees, I scooped his head into my lap. His blood, thick and hot, blooming across my hands like a crimson flower, slicked and sticky against my skin. The coppery tang filled my nostrils, a metallic stench that warred with the acrid bite of gunpowder still clinging to the air. Tears, scalding and relentless, blurred my vision as I pressed my palms into the blossoming wound, the rhythm of my heart a frantic drum against my ribs.

“Sin,” I choked, my voice raw with a grief that ripped through me like a jagged shard of glass. “Damn it, Sin, hang on. Just... hang on a little longer. Please. God, please. They’re coming.”

His eyes, usually sparkling with a devilish glint, were now dull and fading as they mirrored the hope draining from my soul.

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to end.

Not like this.

Not with him.