Page 215 of The One
I crouch again, locking eyes with him. “But thanks to you, he’s no longer with us. So I got over it tonight. Let me show you.” I smile.
In one swift motion, I slash a shallow line across his forearm. Blood beads up along the cut, vivid against his skin.
Antonio doesn’t flinch. “You want me to beg, Mateo?” he scoffs.
I tilt my head, studying the wound. Then, with careful precision, I carve another beside it.
And another.
“No begging required. There’s no stopping this. But I’d love to hear about all the ways you betrayed us. If you’re really good and give me names, I won’t drag this out too long.”
Another cut.
And another.
Tiny wounds, barely deep enough to be called injuries, but they add up. The sting, the slow, grating pain of a thousand shallow wounds. It’s death by a thousand paper cuts, and Antonio knows it.
His jaw clenches tighter with each one, his breath coming in harsh bursts, but he refuses to give me the satisfaction of a reaction.
I step back, admiring my work. Then I meet his gaze, my voice calm, almost curious.
“Interesting.” I drag a finger through the blood smeared across his skin. “I feel none of the panic that used to consume me. Could be my hatred for you, I suppose.”
Antonio glares at me, his breath uneven now. “Go on. Finish it.”
I crouch down to meet his gaze, my blade resting beneath his chin.
“Oh, I will.” My voice is steady, quiet. “But I want you to feel it first. Every single cut. Every moment of it.”
His lips part like he’s about to speak, but I don’t give him the chance.
The next slice is deeper.
Then another. And another.
Antonio’s arrogance cracks. His face tightens, his body jerking against the restraints.
He grits his teeth, forcing out a shaky laugh. “You think this changes anything?”
I lean in, my voice barely a whisper. “Yes, Antonio. It’s definitely changing something.”
Then I sit back and watch him.
Minutes stretch into hours.
He doesn’t give me any names. Doesn’t say a word. But I don’t need all the details of this betrayal. Whoever he’s working with will either hide now, scared, or come out fighting harder. Either way, I’m ready.
I’m Mateo De Marco, Don ofla famiglia. And I will usher in a new era.
As the seconds tick by, Antonio’s once-arrogant smirk fades, replaced by clenched jaws and shaky breaths.
His body trembles from blood loss, though no single wound alone would kill him. It’s the accumulation, the slow drip-drip-drip of his mortality slipping away.
“Had enough yet?” I ask when I’m done admiring my work.
Antonio lets out a wet, pained chuckle. “Go to hell.”
I grab his chin, forcing him to look at me. “You first.”
