ZAYAN — POV
"And now," I say, voice low, almost bored, "I'm taking what you offered."
Luca's eyes snap wide. Pure terror floods in. He scrambles back on his ass, palms slapping the floor like it'll save him.
"No—don't—don't do this—per favore, no!"
His voice cracks high. Pathetic. Italian accent thick with panic. Makes the begging sound almost cute.
I close the gap in two steps. Grab his chin hard. Fingers dig into soft flesh until his jaw pops open. Force his head up. Make him look right at me.
His pupils are blown. Tears already spilling.
I slap him.
Hard.
Open palm cracks across his cheek. The sound echoes—sharp, wet. His head snaps sideways. Lip splits instantly. Blood beads bright red, then drips down his chin.
He whimpers. Tries to curl in.
I slap him again.
Other side this time. Harder. Bone-deep. His whole body jerks. A choked sob rips out.
"Shut the fuck up," I mutter.
He doesn't. Keeps babbling.
"Mi dispiace—mi dispiace tanto—please, sir—I swear—I didn't mean—"
I pull the gun from the small of my back. Cold metal. Familiar weight.
He sees it. Freezes.
Then I drive the butt straight into his left eye.
Thwack.
Sickening crunch. Like stepping on wet gravel.
He screams. High and raw. Body convulses.
I hit again.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Over and over. Same spot. Relentless. Blood sprays. Mixes with tears. His socket caves. Flesh splits.
The eye—gone. Just a ruined, pulpy mess leaking down his cheek.
"Perdonami! Dio mio—stop—mi dispiace—I'm sorry—sorry—sorry—"
Italian and English tangle in his mouth. Slurred. Broken. Accent heavy. Every apology more desperate than the last.
Fucking music.
I stop after the sixth hit. Or seventh. Lost count.
He's gasping. Wheezing. Face a slaughterhouse mess. One eye intact, wide and glassy. The other-nothing. Just dark red ruin.
I wipe the gun butt on his shirt. Casual. Sit back on the couch.
Izar steps forward without a word. Hands me a tissue. Clean. White.
I take it. Wipe my fingers slow. Methodical.
Luca's still on the floor. Curled. Shaking. Growling low in his throat like a dying animal.
"Now," I say, calm as fuck, "smoke."
He growls again. Pain-soaked. Furious. Helpless.
But his hands move anyway. Trembling. Pulls another cigarette from the pack. Lights it with shaking fingers.
Drag.
Deep.
Swallows.
His throat bobs violently. Body heaves. Coughs muffled behind sealed lips. Chest rattles.
I pull my phone out.
Open Candy Crush.
The stupid music starts. Bright. Cheerful. Fucking ironic.
I match candies. Lose a level. Growl under my breath.
"Fuck."
Luca's turning colors now. Blue tint creeping up his neck. Lips purple. Eyes rolling.
He's fighting for air that isn't coming.
I glance over. Smirk.
A slow, wicked smile curls my mouth.
I run my tongue over my fangs—sharp, waiting. Feel the edge.
Start whistling.
Low. Slow. Some old melody stuck in my head. Casual as hell.
Luca collapses.
Face-first into the floor. Body twitches once. Twice. Then still.
Blue. Gone.
I laugh.
Short. Dark. Satisfied.
"Poor bastard."
I stand. Step over. Kick his face with the toe of my boot.
Hard.
Nose caves. Crunch. Blood sprays across the tile.
I crouch down. Close enough to smell the copper and tobacco and piss.
Lean in.
"Spero che tu veda l'inferno presto," I whisper.
(Hope you see hell soon.)
His good eye stares at nothing.
I straighten. Dust my hands.
Turn to Izar.
"Clean up the mess. Hang him there." I nod toward the hook in the ceiling beam. "Let him swing."
Izar nods once. No questions. No reaction.
I walk out.
Still whistling.
The tune echoes down the hall.
Satisfied.
Fucking euphoric.
He looked at what's mine.
Now he's nothing.
And I feel goddamn alive.
-----
The Mustang smells like leather and gunpowder.
I sit in the backseat.
Engine off. Lights dead. Parking lot quiet except for some distant traffic bleeding through concrete.
My hands are clean.
Phone in my palm.
I open the mansion CCTV.
There she is.
Balcony camera. Angle from above. Night swallowing everything except the faint outline of her body against the railing.
She's not moving much.
Just sitting there.
Thinking.
The gala is sitting in her head like a splinter.
Good.
Her fingers tap once against the metal railing. Slow. Distracted.
She's replaying it.
The way I handled Luca. The way the room shifted. The way people moved when I looked at them.
She's starting to see it.
Starting to feel the cracks in the version of me I gave her.
My jaw tightens.
Fuck.
I want to walk in right now and drop the mask on the kitchen counter like it's nothing.
I want to watch her face when she realizes her husband isn't some polished businessman with good manners and better suits.
I want to see if she flinches.
Or if she smiles.
The thought alone does something dangerous to my chest.
She leans back in the chair. Tilts her head toward the sky.
Even through a grainy camera feed she's unreal.
Mine.
That word sits heavy.
Mine.
The idea of another man even thinking about her makes my fingers flex around the phone.
One day our kids will have her face and my eyes.
God help the world.
The Mustang door opens.
Izar slides into the driver's seat. Doesn't look back immediately.
He waits.
He checks the mirrors first.
Always does.
I don't look away from the screen.
"When the news breaks," I say quietly, eyes still on her, "he doesn't leave his apartment for a week."
Izar nods once.
I continue. "No public appearances. No sightings. People say he spiraled."
A beat.
"Drugs," I add. "Make it messy. Believable."
Izar adjusts the rearview.
"It'll circulate by morning."
"Good."
Izar nods once.
Silence stretches.
I zoom in slightly on the screen. Her face is turned sideways now. Profile sharp in the balcony light.
He starts the engine but keeps it idling low.
"You wiped the fingerprints?" I ask.
Izar exhales through his nose, almost offended.
"I'm not stupid."
I look up from the phone, meet his eyes in the mirror.
A slow smile.
"I know."
My gaze drops back to her.
She stands now.
Walks to the railing. Wraps her arms around herself.
Cold.
Or unsettled.
I don't know which I like more.
My thumb hovers over the screen.
Wait and see, wife.
You're close.
Very close.