Chapter 24
I backed up. Let her see the full image. She looked ridiculous. And powerless. And perfect.
She tried to laugh, but it caught in her throat. “They’re just children. They don’t deserve this. They haven’t done anything to you.”
I circled her like a shadow.
“No, they haven’t. And that’s why they’re still alive. That’s more mercy than your husband ever gave my family.”
She crumbled against the wall. “Please… Doris, Please. Just let the twins go. I’ll tell you. anything. I’ll give you Lester’s location. Just don’t hurt them. Don’t turn them into this–this war.”
I crouched, real slow, eye to eye.
“They were born into this war the second you let their father sign my death warrant. You played house while he buried people alive.”
Loisa sniffled. Mascara running even though she wasn’t wearing any.
“He’s not even in the country. He’s in Corsova. He’s got new papers. New name. I swear to God he changes safehouses every few days. But the last I knew–he was staying in the old wine estate. The one with the red vines. South coast.”
She was sobbing now. Her voice hitched, weak and broken.
“I told you. I told you everything. Just… don’t raise them to hate the world. They’re just boys.”
I stood, slowly. Smoothed my gloves.
“They’re your boys, Loisa. Which means they were born with venom in their mouths.”
She grabbed my leg. Literally dropped to her knees and grabbed at my pants like I was her last
prayer.
“I’m begging you. Don’t do this.”
And I just stared at her.
“Beg louder. Maybe God’ll hear you this time.”
Then I turned to my guards.
“Lock her in. Strip the lights. I want her to feel the same darkness I did. Feed her every two days. Just enough to remember the taste of survival.”
As they dragged her away screaming, I adjusted my cuffs.
Lester had no idea what was coming.
But he would.
By the time I was done, even hell would refuse him entry.
The Corsovan estate had the stench of old money and rotting vines. Whatever beauty it once held had been devoured by time and blood. The air tasted like mildew and ghosts.
Lester thought he could hide here. Thought the underground tunnels would keep him safe. Thought mercenaries with accents and hollow eyes could hold off my family.
5:25 am DDDD
He forgot who the hell we were.
Matteo and Enzo didn’t waste time. My brothers moved through the estate like vipers–clean, quiet, no theatrics. Just sharp steel and silencers. They took down the guards before their radios even clicked.
Gunshots were muffled by the velvet dark.
I moved through the main hall, stepping over bodies like broken furniture. The chandeliers were still swinging when I passed under them, blood on the walls like some macabre fresco. The bastards tried to hold the second floor. Matteo set the staircase on fire. Said he didn’t like
climbing anyway.
I found Lester’s room last. Back of the west wing. Locked, but not bolted. The kind of panic you only hear in a man’s breath when he’s running out of exits.
The door creaked open.
He was gone, of course. Slipped through a hatch in the floorboards, left in a hurry. But he didn’t make it clean.
Blood smeared the edge of the trapdoor. Drops, then streaks. One of his arms or legs–maybe both–were hit.
I followed the trail only halfway. Let my brothers track the rest. I stayed behind.
Because on his desk, left like an offering, was his journal.
Leather–bound, rough–edged, still warm from his hands. I flipped it open, careful, slow.
The writing was deranged. Scrawls, torn pages, half–crossed names. Obsessions, delusions. He wrote about my father like a lover. Jealousy pouring from the ink. How he wanted to be him. How he wanted me to beg him the way people once begged the Rosinnis.
He thought legacy was something he could steal. Like a crown left in the mud.
I closed the book. Didn’t need to read more.
He’d already written his own eulogy.
–
We found Edmund in Istanbul. Hiding like a snake in white sheets and plastic tubes.
Private hospital. No real security. His name wasn’t even on record–we only caught him because one of our allies saw a nurse get paid in diamonds.
I didn’t want him dead. Not yet. That would’ve been mercy. No, I wanted him witnessed.
So we rigged his car.
Not a bomb. That would’ve been too fast. We played with the brake lines, delayed the deployment of his airbag, and made sure the crash was survivable. Barely.
The car flipped twice. Smashed through a fence and landed in a ditch. Took them four hours to pull him out.
He lived.
But he’ll never move again.
Paralyzed from the neck down. Can’t scratch his own face or wipe his own spit. The doctors called it a miracle. I called it an improvement.
Happy Divorce. My Husbandi.
D
5:25 am D
I walked into his hospital room three days later. No flowers. No guards. Just me.
He blinked when he saw me. Couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, just blinked. Once. Twice.
I pulled a chair next to his bed. Sat like we were old friends catching up.
“You always said the world belongs to men who take it,” I whispered, pulling off my gloves finger by finger. “But here you are, stuck in a bed while your little empire eats itself alive.”
His eyes twitched. Rage. Good.
“You built your throne on stolen blood. My mother’s. My future’s. You propped up Lester like he was some kind of heir, but all you raised was a scavenger with daddy issues.”
I leaned in closer. Let my voice drop, soft like sin.
“You’ll watch your dynasty rot, inch by inch, and never move a muscle to stop it.”
I stood. Smoothed my coat.
“You’re going to live a long time, Edmund. And I hope every day feels like drowning in glass.”
The monitors beeped steady. His eyes stayed open. I left him like that.
Still breathing. Still watching.
But never again in control.
