Page 59 of Mafia Kingdom

His hand moves with practiced speed, reaching inside his jacket. I'm faster, drawing my gun and aiming it at his chest in one fluid motion.

"Don't," I warn.

Lucas freezes, then slowly raises his hands, a mocking smile playing at his lips. "You won't shoot me, Marco. You couldn't even finish the job at the warehouse."

"Things have changed."

"Have they?" His eyes narrow, assessing. "Or are you still the same Marco who hesitates at the crucial moment? The one who checks his conscience before pulling the trigger? The one who's gone soft for a woman who will never truly understand what you are?"

Before I realize what I'm doing, I've closed the distance between us, pressing the gun against his temple. "What about our family?"

"Family," he scoffs. "You think Father cares about family? He only cares about legacy. About control. He would sacrifice any of us if it served his purposes."

"Maybe," I concede. "But I wouldn't. I never would have sacrificed you or our brothers, or Danny."

Something flickers in Lucas's eyes—a moment of genuine regret, perhaps.

His movement is sudden, vicious—the hidden knife in his sleeve slashing toward my throat. I jerk backward, the blade catching my shoulder instead of my jugular. Pain blooms, hot and immediate, but training takes over. I slam the butt of mygun against his wrist, sending the knife clattering to the concrete floor.

Lucas tackles me before I can recover, and we crash into a stack of crates. The gun skitters away as we grapple, trading blows with the brutal efficiency of men who grew up fighting each other. He's always been quicker, but I have the advantage in raw strength.

We roll across the floor, each seeking dominance. His elbow connects with my temple, sending stars exploding across my vision. I counter with a knee to his ribs, feeling one crack under the force. Lucas gasps but doesn't slow, smashing his forehead into my nose. Blood pours warm down my face, metallic on my tongue.

"I've been wanting to do this for years," Lucas grits out, landing another blow to my injured shoulder. "Always in your shadow. Father's chosen one."

I laugh through the pain, the sound harsh and manic. "That's what this is about? Jealousy? Christ, Lucas, I never wanted any of it. You could have had it all if you'd just asked."

"Liar!" he snarls, wrapping his hands around my throat.

My vision starts to darken at the edges as his grip tightens. With a desperate surge of strength, I buck upward, throwing him off balance. We roll again, and my hand connects with something solid—the knife he dropped earlier.

Without conscious thought, I grab it, muscle memory from countless fights guiding my movements. There's a moment of resistance as the blade meets flesh, then gives way. Lucas's eyes widen in shock as the knife slides between his ribs, finding his heart with deadly accuracy.

Time seems to slow as we stare at each other, his blood hot and slick over my hand. The hatred in his expression fades, replaced by something almost like recognition.

"You'll never escape this life," he chokes out, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. "You're just like Father now."

His body goes slack, dead weight collapsing on top of me. I push him off, scrambling backward until my back hits a crate. My breath comes in ragged gasps as I stare at my brother's lifeless form, at the blood spreading across the concrete floor, mixing with rainwater that drips through the leaking roof.

Lucas is dead. I killed him. My brother.

I don't know how long I sit there, watching his blood dilute in the gathering puddles. Minutes or hours, time loses meaning as the reality of what I've done settles into my bones. Finally, mechanically, I retrieve my gun, wiping it clean before tucking it away. I use rainwater to wash Lucas's blood from my hands, though I know it's a temporary cleansing at best.

My phone buzzes—Tony, checking in. I text back a simple instruction:Cleanup at North Docks, Warehouse 7. Discreet.

Tony will understand. He'll handle the body, make sure no evidence remains. By morning, Lucas Walsh will have simply disappeared—another casualty in our world's endless power struggles.

I drive back to the estate in silence, rain lashing the windshield, matching the storm within me. The weight of what I've done presses down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I've killed before, many times. But never family. Never blood.

The estate looms ahead, lights glowing warmly in the stormy dusk. I park haphazardly in the driveway, not bothering with the garage. My clothes are soaked with rain and blood, my face battered, shoulder throbbing where Lucas's knife caught me. I should go to the back entrance and clean up before anyone sees me like this.

Instead, I find myself walking through the front door, drawn by some instinct I can't name. The foyer is quiet, most ofthe staff and security giving me a wide berth as I drip rainwater and blood onto the marble floor.

And then she's there, appearing at the top of the staircase. Sasha, still in her funeral dress, her face pale with worry. She takes one look at me and knows—not the details, perhaps, but enough. Enough to understand that something irrevocable has happened, something that has changed me in ways I'm only beginning to comprehend.

She descends the stairs slowly, her eyes never leaving mine. I expect her to ask what happened, to demand explanations I'm not sure I can give. Instead, she simply reaches out, placing her hand against my chest, directly over my heart.

The simple contact breaks something loose inside me. My composure, maintained through sheer force of will since driving that knife into Lucas's chest, begins to crack. I take her hand, leading her upstairs to my bedroom without a word. She follows willingly, closing the door behind us.

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