Page 116 of Mafia King of Lies

I can’t tell who fired.

Can’t even tell, at first, who was hit.

But then—one of them drops.

Antonio.

Blood pools beneath him like ink spreading across paper.

Matteo stumbles back, breath caught in his chest, gun still trembling in his grip.

Antonio drops to his knees, then collapses to the floor, the mask still covering his face.

A sharp, gasping sob rips from my throat. I slap my hand over my mouth, my entire body locking up as the video keeps playing. Antonio lies motionless, but his chest lifts in short, shallow bursts. Still breathing. Still here.

Matteo scrambles forward, falling to his knees. His hands shake as he reaches out slowly—like something inside him already knows. He pulls the biker mask from the man lying in a pool of spreading red and freezes.

My stomach twists, bile rising in my throat.

He sees the face. The face of my brother.

Matteo goes pale. He recoils—his expression cracks—and for a single second, I see something flicker in his gaze.

Horror. Realization. Guilt.

Then the video cuts off.

The screen turns black, and it’s all over.

Silence.

Five minutes, thirty-four seconds.

That’s how long it took for my world to fall apart.

I sit frozen, staring at the black screen, my pulse hammering against my skull. For the first time, my mind is quiet, still reeling from shock of what I just witnessed.

No.

This can’t be real.

I can’t breathe. Can’t think.

It has to be manipulated—edited—something. Matteo wouldn’t. He couldn’t. But I saw it. I saw him do it.

My stomach twists uncomfortably, and before I can stop myself, I shove the laptop aside and sprint toward the bathroom. I barely make it before I’m on my knees, emptying what little’s left in me.

Everything inside me rebels, my body rejecting what I just saw, what I now know. When there’s nothing left, I slump against the wall, gasping for air, my vision blurring with unshed tears. I grip my stomach, my fingers digging into the fabric of my dress.

The timer on my phone goes off in my room. The test. The test is done.

I quiver against the cold tiles, but I find the strength to get back onto my feet. With shaking legs, I make my way back to my bed. I barely have the strength to hold myself up at the moment. I look down at my duvet, and I pause.

“Shit.” The curse leaves my lips softly, but the gravity of sorrow that it carries is immense. I look down at it again, making sure that I am seeing things correctly.

Pregnant: 8-9 weeks.

My world shatters. The word screams at me. There it is in big, bold letters. My body feels disconnected from my mind, as if I’m floating outside of myself, watching this moment from a distance.

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