Page 71 of Brutal Union
I shoot him point-blank.
The sound echoes through the chapel like thunder. Blood sprays across the hideous green dress, across the white marble floor, across the altar where I was supposed to promise obedience. Liam falls backward, his chest a spreading red stain, his eyes already going glassy.
The chapel goes silent except for the ringing in my ears. Every weapon is still raised, but no one moves. Not the Irish soldiers. Not even Marco, who stands frozen halfway down the aisle, staring at me like he's seeing me for the first time.
I look down at Liam's body, at the blood spreading in perfect circles across ancient stone. My hands don't shake. My voice doesn't waver.
I wait for guilt, for horror, for anything. Instead, I feel… powerful. For the first time in my life, I chose the violence instead of receiving it.
"I didn't need saving." The words come out steady despite the blood dripping from my hands, despite the body at my feet, despite the way Marco's staring at me like I'm something new and dangerous. "I never did."
27 - Marco
She stands there with Liam’s gun still warm in her hand, looking like death’s own bride. The green dress drips blood across white marble, each drop a small rebellion against the sanctity of this chapel. Behind her, candles flicker in their sconces, throwing shadows that dance across the altar like restless spirits. The chapel air tastes like flavored smoke. Each breath coats my tongue with death.
Christopher scrambles for his weapon, hand reaching beneath his jacket with the desperate speed of a man who knows he's already dead. My bullet finds him first, a clean shot through the temple that drops him before his fingers can close around the grip. He falls sideways into a pew, eyes still open, still surprised. In the candlelight, his blood looks black.
"Clear the room," I say loudly, commanding these Irish soldiers who are suddenly leaderless.
After one long, held breath, they obey, scattering to the exits rather than taking me on. Their boots scuffle over the stone floors, one man trips over, and still his eyes never leave me.
I must look like the devil himself.
The priest cowers behind the altar, muttering prayers in Latin that won't save any of us. Not after what we've done here tonight. The cold of the chapel seeps through my blood-soaked clothes.
Valentina hasn't moved. She stands over Liam's corpse like she's grown roots, like she's become part of this scene of destruction. The gun dangles from her fingers, forgotten. Bloodsoaks through the ridiculous green dress, turning emerald to rust.
I stride to reach her, glass from shattered windows crunching under my shoes. The metallic scent of blood mixes with incense, sacred and profane. The closer I get, the more I see: the tremor in her hands, the glassy distance in her eyes, the way she's holding herself together through pure will.
"Valentina."
She doesn't respond. Just stares down at what she's done, at the man she killed rather than marry. I've seen that look before, in soldiers after their first kill. The moment when you realize you've crossed a line you can never uncross.
"I didn't know." The words rip from my throat like shrapnel, each one drawing blood. "About your mother. I swear on my mother's grave, I didn't know my father ordered it."
Now she looks at me, and the deadness in her eyes is worse than any fury. "Would it have mattered? If you'd known?"
The question cuts deep. Would I have taken her anyway, knowing my family destroyed hers? Would I have pressed that gun to her temple, forced those vows, claimed her body knowing it was built on her mother's bones?
"I tortured your father," I say, needing her to understand. "After you left. Found him trying to run, and I made him talk. He told me everything. How my father ordered the hit, how Alonzo refused to do it because he didn't want to get his hands dirty, but he was glad it got done."
Her laugh is bitter. "So my mother's death was just another lie in a world built on them."
"I never lied to you about this."
"You lied about everything else." Her voice hardens. "About trusting me. About valuing my opinion. The moment the restaurant went wrong, the moment I failed, I became nothing to you. Locked away like another disappointing possession."
"The restaurant…"
"The restaurant showed me exactly what I am to you." She drops the gun, and it clatters across marble with a sound like breaking bones. "A liability. A weakness. Something to protect but never trust."
The truth of it burns. She's right. The moment my brother got shot, I shut her out completely. Became like her father, cold and controlling and cruel.
"Say it," she demands, stepping closer, close enough that I can smell gunpowder on her skin. "Say you were wrong to lock me out. Say you became my father."
"I became him." The admission tastes like mud. "I became everything I swore I'd never be. You were never nothing," I add, but the words sound hollow even to me.
Something cracks in my chest, violent and irreversible. The last piece of my father's legacy shattering like bone. Her father is awful, but mine wasn't much better. We glorify him now he's dead, but he was a brutal man in life. Every instinct screams against this. My father's voice in my head: 'Never show weakness. Never kneel. Never beg.' But she's worth more than pride. Worth more than the legacy of dead men.
