Page 95 of Tormented Oath

Too easy.

Every instinct honed from childhood screams a warning. The offer is too simple, too straightforward. Carlo watches intensely, his smile never reaching his eyes. Marco's grip on the gun is too loose, his stance too casual. I've seen enough double-crosses to recognize one unfolding.

But I have to play along. Have to get close enough to use the only advantage I have—the element of surprise.

My hand extends toward the weapon, fingers careful not to tremble despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I can feel Stefano's gaze burning into my back, can almost sense his desperate need to protect me, to stop whatever's about to happen. But he can't help me now. No one can.

This moment—this one desperate chance—is all mine.

The warehouse feels unnaturally quiet as my fingers close around the gun's grip. I can hear my own heartbeat, the soft shuffle of expensive shoes on concrete, the labored rhythm of Stefano's breathing. Time seems to slow, stretching like heated glass about to break.

Then everything happens at once.

Marco's other hand snaps forward, grabbing my wrist in a crushing grip. The gun remains in his control as he yanks me closer, his smile transforming into something ugly and triumphant.

"You really thought we'd give you control?" Marco laughs, his breath hot against my face. "The D'Amato whore who spread her legs for Rega? You'll be lucky if we let you live long enough to birth that brat."

Behind me, Stefano roars, the sound of a man who would tear the world apart if he could move. The raw fury in his voice sends chills down my spine, but I don't let it distract me. Can't let it distract me.

Because this is exactly what I was counting on.

Marco's focus is on Stefano now, on enjoying the moment of power over Chicago's most feared man. His grip on my wrist remains tight, painful, but his attention has shifted.

In one fluid motion—the kind my mother drilled into me since I was old enough to walk—I reach up with my free hand, fingers finding the ornate hairpin tucked into my updo. The metal slides free silently, its edge razor-sharp against my palm.

Everything my parents taught me, every skill honed through years of cons and survival, narrows to this single, perfect moment. The weight of the hairpin in my hand. The exposed flesh of Marco's throat. The seconds ticking down before the guards react.

I don't hesitate. Can't afford to.

The hairpin slashes across his throat in a single, precise sweep. For a moment, nothing happens—just his eyes widening in shock, his grip on my wrist loosening. Time suspends as we stare at each other, both equally surprised by what I've just done.

Then blood blooms, a horrifying fountain of crimson that sprays across my face, my dress, the concrete floor. The warm wetness of it shocks me, so different from the clinical descriptions my father once gave of arterial wounds. So much more...real.

Marco's mouth works soundlessly, his free hand clutching at his throat as if he could somehow stop the life pouring from him. The gun drops from his fingers, clattering against the concrete with a sound that seems to echo endlessly through the warehouse.

Carlo shouts something—a name, a curse, I can't tell. The guards surge forward, weapons appearing in their hands. Stefano's voice rises above the chaos, warning me, urging me to move, to run, to do something.

But I'm frozen, watching as Marco's body begins to crumple, as his knees give way beneath him. He falls against me, sudden deadweight, his blood soaking through my clothes. The metallic smell of it fills my lungs, making me gag as I stumble backward, trying to get away from what I've done.

I've hurt people before. Broken bones. Left scars. But I've never watched someone die by my hand. Never seen the light leave someone's eyes. Never felt the warm spray of lifeblood across my skin.

The reality of it hits harder than any physical blow, momentarily paralyzing me with the enormity of what I've just done. In that suspended moment of shock, everything else fades away—the warehouse, the guards, even Stefano.

There's only me and the dying man at my feet, both of us equally surprised by how quickly everything can end.

The moment of shock costs me.

Carlo's voice cuts through my stunned horror, his words lost in the roaring of blood in my ears. But his intent is clear as he lunges toward me, face contorted with rage and grief.

I try to move, to raise my hands in defense, to do anything but stand there covered in his brother's blood. But my body responds too slowly, muscles stiff with horror and disbelief.

Carlo's fist connects with my face before I can recover, pain exploding across my cheekbone as I crash to the floor. The concrete is cold and wet beneath me—Marco's blood, I realize distantly, already pooling around me like some macabre halo.

The coppery taste of my own blood fills my mouth as darkness edges my vision. Through the ringing in my ears, I hear Stefano shouting my name, the sound desperate and raw. I try to respond, to move, to do anything but lie here stunned and vulnerable.

But the force of Carlo's blow has left me dazed, my limbs uncooperative, my thoughts scattered. The concrete floor presses cold against my cheek, Marco's blood soaking into my hair, my clothes, my skin.

In the distance, through blurred vision, I see Carlo reaching for his gun, his expensive shoes stepping carelessly through his brother's blood as he moves toward me. His face is transformed with hate, with the promise of violence to come.

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