Chapter 29
My eyes welled up as Lorenzo said his story. The raw pain in his voice echoed my own grief, memories of my parents flooding back.
“I understand,” I whispered, reaching for his hand. “That helplessness, watching someone you love slip away…” My voice cracked. “With my parents, it wasn’t even a chance to say goodbye. Just a phone call in the middle of the night about an ‘accident.”
Tears spilled down my cheeks. Even now, the word ‘accident‘ tasted bitter on my tongue, knowing what I knew now about Dominic’s involvement.
Lorenzo’s thumb brushed across my cheek, wiping away the tears. His touch was gentle, grounding.
“It’s alright,” he said, a soft smile crossing his face. “It happened years ago. I’ve made my peace with it.” His hand lingered on my face, warm and reassuring. “Though I know your wounds are still fresh.”
I leaned into his touch, drawing comfort from his steady presence. There was something about sharing grief that made it feel lighter, less lonely. For the first time since my parents‘ death, I felt truly understood.
I leaned forward, pressing my lips softly against Lorenzo’s forehead. His skin was warm beneath my touch, and I felt him exhale deeply.
“There’s more,” Lorenzo’s voice dropped lower, his eyes distant.
Lorenzo’s POV
“My father’s cold fingers were firm as I pried that letter from his hands.”
“If you don’t kill yourself, we’ll go after your family and destroy everything. This is what happens if you try to cross us.” My voice caught. “And there at the bottom was a signature, Carlos Angelo.”
The name still burned in my throat. I’d memorized every curve of those letters, every flourish of that signature.
My fingers curled into fists at the memory. The bastards had made it look like suicide, but they’d forced his hand. Pushed him into a corner where death seemed like the only way to protect us.
“They didn’t just kill my father, they made him choose.” The words came
12:02 Sun, 2 Mar 0
My hands shook as I remembered that moment.
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The letter’s edges had cut into my palms, the paper crumpling under my grip. Then – footsteps. Heavy boots against marble floors.
I dropped the letter, my heart pounding against my ribs. The closet was right there, and I dove inside, pulling the door almost shut. Just a crack. remained, enough to see through.
Three men in black suits entered my father’s office. Their faces were blank, emotionless as they approached his body. One of them – tall, with a scar across his jaw – knelt beside my father’s slumped form. His fingers pressed against my father’s neck, checking for a pulse.
“He’s done it,” Scar Face says. “Get the letter.”
Another one snatched up the fallen paper from the floor. He folded it carefully, tucking it into his breast pocket.
My breath catches in my throat as I watch the third man step forward. His polished shoe connects with my father’s lifeless body, kicking him onto his side. The thud of flesh against floor echoes in my ears.
Fire burned through my veins. My fingers curled into fists. Every muscle in my body screamed to burst out, to make them pay for that disrespect. But I forced myself to stay still, to keep watching.
They left as quietly as they came, taking the evidence with them. Only when their footsteps fade completely did I allow myself to breathe again.
I stumbled out of that office, my legs barely holding me up. The world blurred past as I ran through streets I’d known all my life, but now felt foreign and hostile. My lungs burned, but I couldn’t stop. Not until I reached home.
Mom was in the kitchen when I burst through the door. One look at my face and the coffee mug slipped from her fingers, shattering on the floor.
“Lorenzo?” Her voice trembled.
I collapsed into her arms, my whole body shaking. “Dad… they killed him. Made it look like…” The words caught in my throat.
We sank to the kitchen floor together, coffee seeping into our clothes. I told her everything through broken sobs the letter, the men, how they’d treated him like garbage. Mom’s fingers dug into my shoulders as she held me, her tears mixing with mine.
The next few days passed in a haze. Headlines screamed about the “tracio
Chapter 29
12:03 Sun, 2 Mar
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The next few days passed in a haze. Headlines screamed about the “tragic suicide” of the Constantine patriarch. Reporters camped outside our gate, spinning tales about depression and financial troubles. The company – Dad’s life’s work – was shutting down.
Then the money appeared. A massive sum, transferred from an untraceable account. Blood money. Their way of buying our silence.
I stared at the bank statement, rage burning through my grief. They thought they could put a price on my father’s life? On what they’d stolen from US?
That’s when I knew. This wasn’t over. I’d make them pay every single one of them. Carlos Angelo and his entire organization would learn what it meant to create their own worst enemy.
I’d become their nightmare, their shadow. They’d taken everything from me, but they’d given me something in return, purpose. Pure, cold, deadly purpose.
Mom must have seen it in my eyes. She gripped my hand tight, and I knew she understood.
We’d lost Dad, but they hadn’t broken us.
They hadn’t broken me.
