Page 91 of Reaper & Ruin
“You dare—”
He lunged at me, his fists swinging, but this time, I was ready. I ducked under his arm, my blood pounding in my ears. I wasn’t a child anymore. I wasn’t going to let him do this to me.
My fist connected with his jaw, the impact sending a shockwave up my arm. He staggered back, clutching his face, his eyes wide with disbelief.
“You son of a—”
He charged again, but I sidestepped, grabbing the iron poker from beside the fireplace. It was warm in my hands, the metal heavy and solid.
He froze, his eyes locking onto the weapon in my grasp.
“You don’t have the guts,” he said, his voice low and taunting. But there was a flicker of something else in his gaze now—something I’d never seen before.
I raised the poker, my hands trembling, my breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. The room seemed to close in around us; the firelight flickering wildly, the mounted deer heads watching silently.
“You want to hit me?” he sneered, his bravado faltering. “Go ahead. Prove you’re as weak as I’ve always said you are to attack your own father.”
My grip tightened on the poker, my knuckles white. I could end it. Right here, right now. I could stop the pain, the humiliation, the constant shadow of his presence looming over me.
I raised the poker higher, my heart hammering in my chest.
“Do it,” he hissed, his voice a venomous whisper. “Prove you’re just like me.”
The words hit me like a blow.
Just like him.
The poker trembled in my grasp, the weight suddenly unbearable. I stared at his face—contorted with anger, twisted with hate—and saw the reflection of everything I didn’t want to be.
I lowered the poker, letting it clatter to the floor.
For a moment, there was only silence. The fire crackled behind us; the flames casting long shadows on the walls.
His expression shifted, the fear in his eyes replaced by something else. Something calculating. He straightened, brushing himself off as if nothing had happened.
“You’ll regret that,” he said, his voice cold and steady. “One day, you’ll wish you had the guts to finish it, Giovanni.”
He turned and walked away, leaving me standing there, my chest heaving, my hands shaking.
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t.
But as I stared at his retreating back, I felt something inside me change. A line had been crossed, a barrier broken. I wasn’t the same boy who’d knelt on that rug, taking his punishment in silence.
And he knew it too. I saw it in his eyes before he turned away.
For the first time in my life, Giorgio De Luca was afraid of me.
I clenched my hands into fists at the memory of the first time I’d faced him and held myself back. That hesitation had cost me more than I cared to admit. It had left a mark on me deeper than any scar his gold ring could leave. The faint ache in my ribs, the phantom pain of long-healed bruises. They didn’t matter anymore.
This time, there would be no hesitation. This time, I would make sure he was dead.
Atlas’ pacing pulled me from my thoughts. I could feel the energy radiating off him, the contained fury, the tension coiling in his muscles. He was like a caged predator, barely keeping his claws sheathed.
I sat up abruptly, rubbing a hand over my face to ground myself. “Atlas,” I muttered, my voice gravelly from disuse.
He paused mid-step, turning his sharp gaze to me. “Yeah?”
I gestured around the room. “Let’s do another sweep. There has to be something we can use to get out of these collars and the room.”
