Page 132 of Riot

I raised the gun.

He looked up.

And everything slowed.

His eyes dropped to the barrel, then back up to my face. His expression didn’t shift. Not a flinch. Not a wince. Just calm.

And then that motherfucker smiled.

“Damn,” he said. “Guess the call didn’t go well.”

“You killed my father.”

It came out hoarse. Barely above a whisper. Like if I said it too loud, it would become permanent.

“Who the fuck is your father?” He asked.

“Lionel Jones!”

His head tilted. “I didn’t know Lionel was your father.”

“That makes it okay?”

“No.” He stepped toward me, slow and deliberate. “But I wouldn’t change a thing.”

My hand shook. Just slightly.

“He was gonna kill mine,” Riot said flatly. “We found out. We acted first. It wasn’t personal. It was war. And war gets messy.”

He stopped when the barrel was pressed to the center of his chest.

“Go ahead,” he murmured. “Do it.”

“Don’t test me.”

“I’m not.”

He leaned in closer. Eyes burning. Jaw flexed.

“I’m giving you a choice.”

My finger grazed the trigger. My entire body trembled. A tear slid down my cheek and I hated that he saw it.

“Be a good girl,” he said, voice like velvet and sin, “and put my gun down.”

I didn’t move.

His lips curved into something dark. Arrogant. Dominant.

“Now,” he said. “Put. The gun. Down. And go to the room.”

My heart cracked wide open.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t beg. He didn’t even explain. He just stood there, proud and powerful, as if he hadn’t just admitted to killing my father.

And still lowered the gun.

Because deep down, I knew I didn’t want him dead.

---