Page 60 of Mafia Kingdom

In the privacy of my room, she helps me out of my bloodied clothes, her movements gentle but practical. She cleans the knife wound on my shoulder, applying antiseptic and bandages from the first aid kit I keep in my bathroom. Her touch is sure, clinical almost, but her eyes betray her concern. She works in silence, asking no questions, making no judgments.

When she's finished, I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The adrenaline crash hits me all at once, leaving me hollow and exhausted. Sasha sits beside me, her hip against mine, a warm, solid presence in the emptiness that threatens to consume me.

"He's gone," I say finally, my voice sounding strange even to my own ears.

She nods, understanding immediately. "Lucas?"

I close my eyes, the confirmation too difficult to voice aloud. She doesn't press for details, doesn't ask if I was the one who killed him. She already knows the answer.

"Sleep," she says softly, her hand cool against my forehead. "I'll be here."

I want to tell her she doesn't have to stay, that she doesn't need to witness this darkness in me. I want to remind her that tomorrow we'll get Lily, that she can still leave all this behind. I want to warn her that loving me—if that's what this is becoming—will only bring her pain.

But exhaustion claims me before I can form the words, dragging me into a darkness where Lucas waits, blood still pooling around him, his last accusation hanging in the air between us.

You're just like Father now.

In my dreams, I don't deny it. I simply ask:Was there ever any other way this could end?

The ghost of my brother has no answer. Neither do I.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Sasha

A WEEK PASSES in strange silence. Marco has changed since Lucas's death—colder, more withdrawn, moving through the house like a ghost. The official story, carefully circulated among his men, is that Lucas was killed by a rival gang in retaliation for some past grievance. No one questions it openly, though I catch whispered conversations that fall silent when I approach.

They all know the truth or at least suspect it. Marco killed his brother. His own flesh and blood.

I should be horrified. I should be planning my escape, desperate to get as far away as possible from a man capable of such violence. Instead, I find myself watching him, studying the new weight he carries on his shoulders, the shadows that darken his eyes when he thinks no one is looking.

Every night, Marco drinks alone in his study, staring into the fire until the early hours of morning. Every night, I tell myself to leave him to his demons, to maintain some semblance of distance and sanity. Every night, I fail.

Tonight is no different. The clock reads 2:17 A.M. when I slip out of my room, padding barefoot down the silent hallway. Buddy follows for a few steps before deciding the comfort of hisdog bed is more appealing than another late-night vigil. Smart dog.

Marco's study door is ajar; warm light is spilling into the corridor. I pause in the doorway, taking in the familiar scene: Marco in his leather armchair, tumbler of whiskey in hand, firelight playing across his face. He looks exhausted, the kind of bone-deep weariness that sleep can't cure.

"You should be in bed," he says without looking up, somehow aware of my presence despite my silent approach.

"So should you," I counter, entering the room and closing the door behind me.

He doesn't respond, taking another sip of whiskey instead. I cross to the sofa opposite his chair, tucking my legs beneath me as I settle into the worn leather. We've established a routine of sorts these past nights—me sitting quietly while he drinks, occasionally breaking the silence with neutral observations about the estate or the weather, never addressing the bloodstained elephant in the room.

Tonight feels different, though. The air between us is charged with something I can't quite name.

"You never asked me what happened," Marco says suddenly, his voice rough from disuse.

I meet his gaze steadily. "I didn't need to."

He turns the crystal tumbler in his hands, watching the amber liquid catch the firelight. "Most people would want details. Certainty."

"Would telling me change anything?" I ask quietly. "Would it bring Lucas back or ease your conscience?"

His lips twist in a humorless smile. "I don't have a conscience, Sasha. Not anymore."

"Liar," I say softly. "If that were true, you wouldn't be down here every night, drinking yourself numb."

Marco's eyes snap to mine, something dangerous flickering in their depths. For a moment, I wonder if I've pushed too far, crossed some invisible boundary. But he only sighs, the sound heavy with resignation.

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