Chapter Thirty
Saint
The next day…
“You don’t have to do this.”
Aria’s tone was softer than she had ever used with me, barely audible over the low hum of the car’s engine. She was feeling guilty but had no reason to be. This day had been coming.
We sat parked outside my father’s club, the neon sign casting a sickly glow over the cracked pavement. Drake Heart was beside me, his fingers tapping an absent rhythm on the dashboard. His eyes were fixed on the building, as if he were already envisioning the carnage he’d leave behind.
I knew my father would be inside. He was a man of routine—every Wednesday, he came to collect the club’s earnings. Giovanni would be with him, along with a handful of guards. Not enough to stop me. Not even close.
Drake exhaled sharply, his breath fogging the glass. “We got this, Saint. I’ll call Brooker, we go in, clean house, and we’re out in five. You stay here.”
I shook my head. “I need to do this.”
He shrugged. I could see in his eyes he really didn’t want me to do this. “Cold. But I get it, after what he put you through.”
Aria’s hand clenched mine. “If this is going to change you… don’t do it.”
I turned to reassure her. “This was always going to happen.” I leaned in, kissing her slowly, deeply, then I stepped out of the car.
The street was quiet, the air thick with the scent of rain and hot asphalt cooling. My heart beat a steady rhythm, my mind clear. This wasn’t rage. This wasn’t revenge.
This was necessary.
I pushed through the club’s doors like I owned the place.
Giovanni was at the bar, his back to me. He turned, his face a mask of surprise, but I didn’t give him time to speak. The gunshot echoed through the room, and he crumpled to the floor. The two guards fumbled for their weapons, but they were too slow. One fell with a bullet through his throat, the other through his chest. The bartender dropped behind the counter, wisely staying out of it.
Blood spread across the floor, dark and glistening. I stepped over it, heading for the stairs.
Upstairs, my father was waiting. He sat behind his desk, his skin ashen, his breathing labored. A coughing fit wracked his body, each hack sounding wet and painful. He was already dying. But not fast enough.
I took the seat across from him, the gun resting on my thigh.
His lips twisted into a weak smile. “Knew this day would come. Just didn’t think it’d be over some girl.” He coughed again, his eyes glinting with malice. “That girl has been your weakness since the day she jumped in front of you. You think you own her? She owns you.”
I didn’t respond. Just stared at him, calm, features schooled.
“I have one question.”
He chuckled, the sound wet and ragged. “Ask.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t my father?”
His brow furrowed. “What the hell are you talking about?”
I leaned forward, my voice low. “I took a test. You’re not my father.”
For a moment, he looked genuinely confused. Then anger flashed in his eyes. “That test is bullshit.”
I said nothing. I didn’t believe him.
He slammed a fist on the desk, his breath coming in shallow gasps. “I was there when you were born. I held you in my arms the day your mother died. She smiled at you, you know. Even as she bled out.” His voice cracked, something raw and unspoken bleeding through. “I made you strong. I made you a man. I raised you even after you killed her? Why would I do that if you weren’t mine?”
I shook my head. “You’re lying. You just don’t want to die.”
His face twisted, rage coloring his entire face red. “I don’t give a damn about dying! I got holes in my lungs. I’ve been rotting from the inside for years, boy. You’re just speeding up the clock.”
He leaned closer, his eyes dark, feverish. “Fuck dying. I don’t even care if I end up in hell.”
“Quando morirò, la mia anima sarà pesata sulla bilancia del peccato e del perdono. Ma non ci sarà perdono per me.” (When I die, my soul will be weighed on the scales of sin and forgiveness. But there will be no forgiveness for me.)
“But lying about being your father won’t be one of those sins.”
Donato shook his head, chuckling bitterly. “And there won’t be any for you either, boy. For believing bullshit and dishonoring me.”
His breath was labored, but the sneer never left his face.
“I built an empire so you could live in heaven on earth, and you’re throwing it away for a woman who will never love you the way you love her.”
His eyes burned into mine. “You’re not a king. You’re a dog on a leash, and she’s the one holding it.”
I exhaled slowly, my grip tightening on the gun. “You don’t get to talk about her after keeping your leash around my neck for twenty-seven years. You beat me like a dog. You treated me like a dog. I was your lap dog.”
His smirk returned. “I should’ve killed her when I had the chance.”
“Why couldn’t you just let me have her?”
“Because she’s not worthy of you, and if I live, I will kill her. Like her fucking father.”
That was all I needed to hear.
“Drake Heart isn’t dead...”
Donato’s smirk faltered. His fingers twitched against the desk.
“Bullshit.” The word came out strained.
I tilted my head, watching the realization sink in, the cracks forming in his certainty.
“You’re lying,” he said, but his sneer didn’t have an edge. His eyes darted to mine, searching, trying to read me.
I stayed silent, letting him drown in it.
His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, and for the first time, I saw something close to fear flash across his face. Not of death. Not of me. But of what he might have gotten wrong.
“Impossible,” he muttered, more to himself than to me. “I had him killed.”
His lips parted slightly, his gaze flicking toward the door—as if expecting a ghost to walk through it.
And that was when I raised the gun.
The gunshot was deafening in the small room. His body jerked, then slumped forward, his head hitting the desk with a dull thud.
The silence that followed was absolute.
I stood, staring down at the man who had shaped me, molded me into something hard and unyielding. My father—or the man I’d believed was my father—lay still, his blood pooling on the polished wood.
I expected to feel something. Relief. Vindication. Closure.
But there was nothing.
Just emptiness.
I turned and walked out.
Aria was waiting in the car, her face pale, her hands clenched in her lap. She didn’t ask if it was done. She already knew.
“It’s over,” I said.
Drake nodded once, starting the engine.
Aria didn’t speak.
And neither did I.