Page 57 of Saint Valentine

His face twisted, rage coloring his entire face red. “I don’t give a damn about dying! I got holes in my lungs. I’ve been rotting from the inside for years, boy. You’re just speeding up the clock.”

He leaned closer, his eyes dark, feverish. “Fuck dying. I don’t even care if I end up in hell.”

“Quando morirò, la mia anima sarà pesata sulla bilancia del peccato e del perdono. Ma non ci sarà perdono per me.”

(When I die, my soul will be weighed on the scales of sin and forgiveness. But there will be no forgiveness for me.)

“But lying about being your father won’t be one of those sins.”

Donato shook his head, chuckling bitterly. “And there won’t be any for you either, boy. For believing bullshit and dishonoring me.”

His breath was labored, but the sneer never left his face.

“I built an empire so you could live in heaven on earth, and you’re throwing it away for a woman who will never love you the way you love her.”

His eyes burned into mine. “You’re not a king. You’re a dog on a leash, and she’s the one holding it.”

I exhaled slowly, my grip tightening on the gun. “You don’t get to talk about her after keeping your leash around my neck for twenty-seven years. You beat me like a dog. You treated me like a dog. I was your lap dog.”

His smirk returned. “I should’ve killed her when I had the chance.”

“Why couldn’t you just let me have her?”

“Because she’s not worthy of you, and if I live, I will kill her. Like her fucking father.”

That was all I needed to hear.

“Drake Heart isn’t dead...”

Donato’s smirk faltered. His fingers twitched against the desk.

“Bullshit.” The word came out strained.

I tilted my head, watching the realization sink in, the cracks forming in his certainty.

“You’re lying,” he said, but his sneer didn’t have an edge. His eyes darted to mine, searching, trying to read me.

I stayed silent, letting him drown in it.

His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, and for the first time, I saw something close to fear flash across his face. Not of death. Not of me. But of what he might have gotten wrong.

“Impossible,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. “I had him killed.”

His lips parted slightly, his gaze flicking toward the door—as if expecting a ghost to walk through it.

And that was when I raised the gun.

The gunshot was deafening in the small room. His body jerked, then slumped forward, his head hitting the desk with a dull thud.

The silence that followed was absolute.

I stood, staring down at the man who had shaped me, molded me into something hard and unyielding. My father—or the man I’d believed was my father—lay still, his blood pooling on the polished wood.

I expected to feel something. Relief. Vindication. Closure.

But there was nothing.

Just emptiness.

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