Page 139 of Beneath the Shadows

The gunshot is deafening in the tight space, the bullet whizzing past my head and slamming into the wall behind me.

“Shit,” I hiss, diving behind an old support beam, squeezing off a shot of my own. There’s a grunt, followed by the dull thud of a body hitting the floor. One of Draco’s men.

I have no time to breathe as more footsteps echo through the tunnel. Another figure sprints toward me, gun raised. He fires, missing me by only inches. I charge after him, blood pumping, adrenaline taking over. Shots ring out, bouncing off the walls as I chase him down.

Another round—closer this time. I duck, firing off two more shots. One finds its mark. The man stumbles, clutching his side before collapsing onto the stone. His body twitches once, then goes still.

Not knowing how many more men are down here, I don’t slow down. As I round the next corner, that’s when I see him.

Draco Moretti.

He’s slinking through the catacomb-like tunnels like the rat he is, trying to escape. My body reacts before my mind can. I fire. The shot is precise, hitting him in the leg. He crumples to the ground with a pained groan, clutching his bleeding thigh.

With my gun raised, I stalk toward him. He reaches for his weapon, but I kick it away, sending it skittering across the stone. Grabbing him by the collar, I drag him to the nearest wall and slam him against it. His breath comes out in sharp, wheezing gasps, pain and rage battling in his eyes. But still—arrogance. He thinks he’s in control.

“I figured you’d show up,” he spits, his voice strained but smug.

I press my gun to his temple, leaning in close. “By the time I’m done with you, you’ll wish I hadn’t.”

* * *

“Make him suffer, Dante,” Antonio’s voice is venom, pure and raw. “Make sure he suffers and then burns in hell.”

“He will,” I promise, and then disconnect the call.

Draco’s bloodshot eyes narrow, even as blood trickles down his temple. “You talk big, but we’re the same. You kill, just like I do,” he rasps, the words laced with bitterness.

I tighten my grip on his throat, cutting off his breath, my voice low and seething. “The difference is,” I growl, yanking my knife from its sheath, the cold steel gleaming in the dim light, “I protect my family. You betrayed yours.” I press the blade to his side, dragging it across his skin, slow and deliberate.

“You think that makes you better than me?” His eyes gleam with twisted satisfaction as he winces through the pain.

“Better than you?” I repeat, my voice low, dangerous. “Killing you isn’t about being better. It’s about making sure you never hurt anyone again.”

His smirk falters, just for a second, but it’s enough. I squeeze his throat harder, savoring the way his bloodshot eyes widen in panic.

Draco’s breath rasps as blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, but that sickening grin never falters. “Tell me, Dante? Are you fucking her too? Is that why you’re here? Two men fighting over a whore who’s only good for spreading her legs.” He chuckles, dark and cruel. “I do have one regret,” he leans in, his breath hot and rancid. “I should’ve fucked her myself. Now I’ll never know what the fuss is about.”

Before I even realize it, my fist crashes into his face, the sickening crack of bone echoing through the tunnel. Draco grunts, blood spurting from his broken nose, but the bastard still grins through the pain.

“You filthy piece of shit,” I snarl, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him harder against the wall. “Your only regret is not raping your daughter.” Draco gasps, his breath coming in ragged bursts as I squeeze tighter, watching the life drain from his bloodshot eyes.

“You want to talk about regrets, Draco?” I growl, pressing the cold steel of the knife to his cheek, my voice low and venomous.

Without waiting for a response, I drag the blade across his face in one swift motion. Blood wells from the cut, spilling down his skin as his body flinches in pain, but he stays silent, refusing to give me the satisfaction of his screams. I keep him pinned, watching the blood trickle down his face.

“You’re not going to die quick,” I whisper, leaning in close. “You’ll suffer for everything you did to her.”

Draco’s laugh is a sick, guttural sound, a mix of blood and cruelty. “Did she tell you her little secret? Hmm? Did she tell you she was carrying my grandchild?”

The words hit like a punch to the gut, and for a second, the air is sucked from my lungs. He’s lying. He has to be. But the way his eyes light up tells me there’s some truth in his twisted words.

“But I took care of it. With any luck, they’re both dead by now.”

“You sick bastard,” I roar, as I slam the knife into his shoulder, the blade driving deep. This time, Draco screams, the sound sharp and guttural as I twist the knife, savoring the agony etched on his face.

“You killed your own grandchild?” I snarl, my breath ragged with anger. “You tortured your daughter, left her to die, and now you’ve got the nerve to laugh about it?”

“I never wanted Alessia. You think I care about some bastard grandchild?” His laughter turns to a wheeze, mocking and breathless. “Whose baby is it? Antonio’s? Yours? Or some other bastards?”

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