Page 93 of Scarred in Silence

I laugh, a haunting laugh. How poetic.

I pick up the gun.

The cold slide. The smell of gun oil. Lucien’s fingerprints still ghost the grip. I remember the night he pressed it into my palm:If I ever cross a line you can’t forgive—

I rack the slide, chamber a round. The metallic snap pierces the muted room.

Then I open my mouth.

Steel meets tongue, teeth, soft palate. Heavy. Certain. My finger finds the curve of the trigger, rests. The barrel chills the back of my throat. I imagine Harmony somewhere in a warehouse, rope-burned, whispering my name. I imagine Lucien downstairs, planning to paint the world red because he can’t bear my bruises.

I inhale metal. Salty tears spill.

Tick. Tick. The grandfather clock in the office echoes from down the hallway through the silence as if it were counting my heartbeats. Tick. Tick. Tick.

I close my eyes.

Click.

35

Lucien

One Year Ago

Rusted beams loom overhead—ancient ribs of a beast we both grew up beneath, tagging our names in spray-paint wars after Friday night fights. Tonight, the only paint will be blood, and I’ve already chosen the color.

Damien’s waiting under the dim streetlight, leather jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder, expression carved from the same marble our father loved to chisel me with: Why can’t you be more like your brother?

Even now, with betrayal radiating off him like heat from a fire, he can’t resist the smirk—like he’s still Dad’s golden boy and I’m just the spare tire left to dry-rot in the yard.

“Little Crowe,” he drawls, kicking a shard of beer bottle into the river. “Figured you’d send Dante. You’ve never had the stomach for cleanup.”

Funny. My stomach feels fine—heavy, yes, but settled, the way apredator’s gut quiets just before it pounces. I step into the glow of the light, sliding the glock from my waistband. The barrel absorbs the light like a black hole. Damien’s brow lifts, but he doesn’t back up. He never learned fear of family; Dad taught him he was invincible.

“I heard about the trailer,” I say. My voice sounds like someone else’s, low and flat and final. “Fentanyl stash, fifteen girls doped into a coma. Your product?”

He rolls a coin across his knuckles—showmanship to mask nerves. “Business is business.”

“They were kids.”

“So were we when Dad put a gun in our mouths to see if we’d break. We didn’t.” He flashes teeth. “We leveled up.”

That coin clicks against bone when I catch his wrist mid-roll. I squeeze until the metal drops. His grin turns forceful, but he keeps it. Always had a talent for turning pain into pleasure.

“I leveled up,” I correct. “You sold out.”

“Sold up, brother. There’s a difference.” He yanks free, rubbing the bruise blooming on his wrist. “Do you have any idea what the cartel pays for fresh routes? For a Crowe seal?”

“What they pay doesn’t matter. What Dante’s mother and sister paid—that matters.”

A flicker—too quick to be fear, almost… delight? “Ah,” he says softly. “So you’ve noticed those loose threads.”

My pulse spikes. “What do you know?”

He steps closer, breath whiskey-sweet, whispering: “Enough to puppet Dante for the next decade. Enough to watch you both burn the city just to destroy everyone you think is on your side.” He taps his temple. “Map’s all up here, little bro.”

“Share it,” I snarl.