Page 125 of Wounded King

Even if he never says it.

A few days later…

My father’s verdict was delivered a few days ago, and today is the day to hear what Judge Lambert decided his sentence should be. After hearing it, I walk out of the courtroom without looking back. There's no weight in my chest, my steps aren't lighter, and I don't feel any different after hearing the sentence. The only thing that's changed is that now the world knows what I've always known: he was never untouchable.

Two days in jail or twenty years, it doesn't matter. From the moment I handed Toni the last of my father's leverage, I knew he was a dead man. The bars, the trial, the press, it's all just theater. The real punishment is the silence that follows when power is stripped clean away.

Voices blur around me, reporters, lawyers, some idiot shouting about injustice. I ignore them all. But as I push through the courthouse doors into the bright, sterile light of morning, I feel it.

A presence.

Tense, coiled, and familiar. In the way poison is familiar once you've tasted it. On instinct, I glance to the left and straight at Donna Margarita.

She's dressed like she's attending a wedding, not a sentencing. What is she even doing here? Her hair is set in soft waves, her body packed in a designer blouse and pencil skirt. Dark sunglasses cover the upper part of her face, and red lipstick is painted on her lips like war paint. Her smile is that of a viper, cold and deadly, when her gaze meets mine across the marble steps.

She's enjoying this. She wants me to see her.

I slow, just enough to make it clear that I have.

She lifts her sunglasses with a delicate touch, revealing eyes that have seen too much and cared too little.

"What a shame," she says in a smooth voice, as smooth as honey and laced with venom. "All that power, and not a single bullet fired in his defense. Tsk. You boys really have changed."

I don't respond. I just look at her. And for a moment, I think she's trying to provoke me into something messy. Something public. Interesting. Why would she want me to do this?

She's angry. That much is clear. Not just at Carlos, though she's practically vibrating with satisfaction over his conviction. No, this is deeper. Focused and deeply personal.

Like an arrow to the chest, I feel the truth. She wanted him sentenced for Jacomo. She wanted blood. And she didn't get it.

Yet, she's smiling.

I wonder if to her, any crack in our foundation is a chance to slide the knife in deeper. But that only makes me question why? What is she getting out of this? What would be her endgame? If the families lost their power, so would she.

"Tell Toni I'm proud of him," she adds as she turns to go. "Even I didn't think he had it in him."

I watch her walk away, every click of her heels echoing like a countdown. She is walking like a victor; the sway of her hips is proud and light.

"What did the old bat want?" Luciano asks me, stepping out of the SUV that just stopped by the curb.

"Damned if I know." I'm still staring at her walking away. As if she feels my gaze, she waves her hand in the air.

"That can't be good," Luciano says darkly.

"No," I agree, and climb into the car.

The next morning…

"I'm sorry to inform you that your father was killed last night. I assure you we're doing everything we can to find out?—"

I hang up on the warden and lean back in my chair.

Dead.

He's finally dead.

I search deep inside myself, trying to find a trace of emotion. But there is none. My heart rate isn't even elevated. I don't feel triumph; I don't feel grief. I don't feel anything at all. No satisfaction. No rage. No closure.

Just silence.