Page 46 of Devil in Disguise

The flickering candlelight caught the gleam of malevolence in his eyes, eyes that had once held a twisted paternal affection, now only reflected the cold certainty of his impending demise.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he breathed, his words thick with disbelief.

“Oh, you think not?” My grin was feral, mirroring his, but born of something far darker.

The roar of the gunshot ripped through the suffocating silence of the room, a deafening crack that echoed the shattering of my past.

Sinclair crumpled, a grotesque marionette whose strings had been brutally severed. The crimson blossom on his shirt was a macabre flower, its petals unfolding in slow motion as his hands clawed at the wound, a desperate attempt to staunch the torrent. The coppery tang of his blood filled the air, mingled with the acrid scent of gunpowder.

With a swift, practiced move, I tucked my weapon away, its solidity a familiar comfort against my skin. Danny, his skin clammy and pale under the flickering candlelight, remained sprawled on the floor, a whimpering, broken thing. His nakedness felt obscene, a stark reminder of the violation he’d suffered.

The sight twisted a fresh wave of fury through me, fueling my desperate need to get him away from this blood-soaked nightmare. I shoved his jeans onto his trembling legs, the rough denim a harsh contrast against his skin. His mumbled words were a broken symphony of terror, lost in the cacophony of my racing thoughts.

I forced his shirt and boots on, each movement enacted with brutal urgency.

His arm felt slight and fragile beneath mine as I heaved him to his feet, a broken bird in my arms.

Sinclair’s voice, ragged and barely audible, cut through my grim concentration.

“This... isn’t... over,” he gasped, his face a mask of white and red.

I looked down at the man who had once been my father, who had twisted my childhood into a living hell. A cold satisfaction flooded my veins as I smiled, a chilling, triumphant smile. “It already is,” I whispered, the words as sharp and final as the bullet swirling around in his gut.

Chapter Twenty-One

Dante

The gunshot still roared in my ears, a phantom echo against the sickening thud of Crispin Sinclair’s body hitting the floor of his office. I could still smell the coppery tang of his blood as it filled the air, like a metallic perfume clinging to the damp chill of the alley.

I didn’t think. To think was to drown in the icy grip of the deed, to become as shattered and lost as Danny.

His vacant stare now seared into my memory.

No, I had to act.

His haunted eyes, the way his trembling hand had clutched mine moments before... they fueled the frantic pulse in my throat, a desperate, savage rhythm. I needed to get him out, away from this fetid pit of shadows where rats squeaked obscenely in the gutters and the reek of decay clawed at my lungs. I had to find somewhere safe, a sanctuary where I could dissect this carnage, this violation, and decide what monstrous act would follow. My hands, slick with sweat, felt alien, cold, yet somehow burning with a fury I couldn’t comprehend.

But the cold logic gnawed: survive.

Protect Danny.

And then... then we would reckon.

Panic clawed at my throat, a taste of bile rising as we scrambled for the emergency exit. The back stairs groaned under our desperate weight, each creaking step a hammer blow against the suffocating dread. The air, thick with stale beer and the tang of fear, hit me like a wall as we burst from the Playground’s rear exit into the inky blackness of the alley.

My heart hammered a frantic tattoo against my ribs, a deafening counterpoint to the city’s low hum. The reek of decay and damp earth assaulted my nostrils, a chilling perfume of urban decay. Left, right—shadows danced, mocking my frantic search for escape, each one a potential threat in the oppressive gloom.

Where the hell were we? This wasn’t just about getting away; it was about survival. The weight of my choices, the chilling certainty of what I left behind, pressed down on me, heavier than the grimy brick walls closing in.

“Leave me,” Danny rasped. His eyes, usually vibrant, were dull embers, reflecting the flickering neon sign of a distant bar—a cruel mockery of life. The man he was, the fighter he was, had crumbled to dust beneath the weight of his actions. His hand, clammy and trembling, brushed against mine.

“Over my dead body,” I snarled, my raw fear for his sanity a bitter tang on my tongue.

I had to get him somewhere safe, but where? Home was a family drama waiting to happen. Stella and Digger would drag him back to the sterile hell of the hospital, where they’d dissect him, not heal him. The Soulless Sinners’ clubhouse? No. I couldn’t deal with the brothers’ curiosity or their brutal judgment. They’d tear the truth from me, piece by agonizing piece.

The decision, a gut-wrenching lurch of desperation, clawed its way to the surface.

A motel. A temporary haven, a fleeting respite from the storm raging around us. But even the sterile, slightly sour smell of bleach and stale cigarettes couldn’t mask the chilling premonition that this wasn’t a solution; it was only a desperate, fleeting postponement of the inevitable.

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