Page 94 of Scarred in Silence
He leans in, lips brushing my ear. “Make me.”
My father’s voice detonates inside my skull—Damien’s the heir, Lucien. He understands strategy. Suddenly, every inch that was given to my brother feels like a mile. I elbow him back. He laughs, stumbling, wiping blood from a split lip like it’s a childhood scab.
“Why?” I ask, genuine confusion tasting like rust. “You had the throne. Dad worshiped you.”
“Exactly,” he snaps. “You ever love something that suffocated you? Our father wrapped me in gold chains and called it a legacy. I’m just cutting a new key.”
He flicks the lighter he stole off me years ago—the one with the raven crest—and flames jump between us.
“Dante’s grief, your rage, Dad’s money. Perfect trifecta.”
A freight horn screams downstream. Night wind shifts, bringing rot and the sour reek of truths I never wanted. I raise the glock. Damien’s smile doesn’t falter, but his pupils contract.
“You won’t,” he says. “Blood respects blood.”
“So bleed for me,” I whisper, and pull the trigger.
The first shot punches his shoulder, spinning him into the lamplight. His jacket flares crimson. He stumbles, hand clamped over the wound, laughter choking into coughs. He looks startled, like my bullet rewrote physics.
“You—fuck—” He spits pink. “You really did it.”
I advance, holding my gun steady. “Name. Tell me who took Dante’s sister.”
A thin trickle slides past his lips. He grins, teeth lacquered vermilion. “Ask Mom. Oh— right. She overdosed after your tenth detention.”
I shoot his thigh. Bone cracks like breaking ice. He howls, folding. The bridge groans overhead, metal shrieking in sympathy.
“Name,” I demandagain.
He drags himself backward on one arm, the heels of his boots scraping concrete. “Damien Crowe never kneels,” he rasps.
“You’re already on your knees.”
“Nah.” He spits blood, eyes blazing with manic triumph. “This? This is me planting roots in your conscience.” He taps his temple again.
My father’s voice again—Damien’s special. Rage burns in my bones. I step forward, sight aligned, and I pull the trigger once more.
Second chest shot.
He collapses, mouth shaping curses that flatten into silence. Blood puddles darken on concrete, seeping toward my boots like a curse.
His gaze finds mine—no hatred, just cold calculation until the light dims, and dims…
I release a breath I didn’t know I’d caged.
Wind rattles the bridge. The night smells like revenge and closure. I crouch, press two fingers to his throat.
Pulse? Nothing. I stand and holster the gun, wiping blood splatter from my jaw.
No witnesses but the river.
I leave him where he lies, red-soaked beneath the lamplight—Damien Crowe, favored son, heir— now dead. The first raindrops hiss on hot metal as I walk away, drowning his last smirk.
I don’t look back.
He wouldn’t have looked back for me. So why should I?
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