Page 36 of Scarred in Silence (The Twisted Trilogy #2)

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 a predator’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.

He leans in, lips brushing my ear. “Make me.”

My father’s voice detonates inside my skull—Damien ’s the heir, Lucien. He understands strategy. Suddenly, every inch that was given to my brother feels like a mile. I elbow him back. He laughs, stumbling, wiping blood from a split lip like it’s a childhood scab.

“Why?” I ask, genuine confusion tasting like rust. “You had the throne. Dad worshiped you.”

“Exactly,” he snaps. “You ever love something that suffocated you? Our father wrapped me in gold chains and called it a legacy. I’m just cutting a new key.”

He flicks the lighter he stole off me years ago—the one with the raven crest—and flames jump between us.

“Dante’s grief, your rage, Dad’s money. Perfect trifecta.”

A freight horn screams downstream. Night wind shifts, bringing rot and the sour reek of truths I never wanted. I raise the glock. Damien’s smile doesn’t falter, but his pupils contract.

“You won’t,” he says. “Blood respects blood.”

“So bleed for me,” I whisper, and pull the trigger.

The first shot punches his shoulder, spinning him into the lamplight. His jacket flares crimson. He stumbles, hand clamped over the wound, laughter choking into coughs. He looks startled, like my bullet rewrote physics.

“You—fuck—” He spits pink. “You really did it.”

I advance, holding my gun steady. “Name. Tell me who took Dante’s sister.”

A thin trickle slides past his lips. He grins, teeth lacquered vermilion. “Ask Mom. Oh— right. She overdosed after your tenth detention.”

I shoot his thigh. Bone cracks like breaking ice. He howls, folding. The bridge groans overhead, metal shrieking in sympathy.

“Name,” I demand again.

He drags himself backward on one arm, the heels of his boots scraping concrete. “Damien Crowe never kneels,” he rasps.

“You’re already on your knees.”

“Nah.” He spits blood, eyes blazing with manic triumph. “This? This is me planting roots in your conscience.” He taps his temple again.

My father’s voice again—Damien’s special. Rage burns in my bones. I step forward, sight aligned, and I pull the trigger once more.

Second chest shot.

He collapses, mouth shaping curses that flatten into silence. Blood puddles darken on concrete, seeping toward my boots like a curse.

His gaze finds mine—no hatred, just cold calculation until the light dims, and dims…

I release a breath I didn’t know I’d caged.

Wind rattles the bridge. The night smells like revenge and closure. I crouch, press two fingers to his throat.

Pulse? Nothing. I stand and holster the gun, wiping blood splatter from my jaw.

No witnesses but the river.

I leave him where he lies, red-soaked beneath the lamplight—Damien Crowe, favored son, heir— now dead. The first raindrops hiss on hot metal as I walk away, drowning his last smirk.

I don’t look back.

He wouldn’t have looked back for me. So why should I?