Chapter 12 – Lazaro
Riven. The name echoes through my mind like a curse.
I didn’t want to believe it. But I knew. Deep down, things had shifted. A restlessness in his stance, hesitation in his voice, a pause too long in his responses. And now the truth coils around my ribs like a vice. Brotherhood. Loyalty. Trust. All undone by a whisper and the truth it carried.
Me and Riven, side by side, guns blazing as we burst into Blake’s penthouse. The bastard hadn’t paid his debt, and we came to collect with fire and steel. Bullets flew, smoke filled the air, and our boots pounded across shattered marble tiles. I remember Riven’s voice, cutting through the chaos—calm, ruthless, barking commands like a soldier born for war.
"Left flank, I’ve got you," he yelled, covering me as I stormed the living room, gun raised.
"You always take the easy side," I shouted back, ducking behind the bar and firing at Blake’s guards.
"That’s because you like to make a mess," he replied, a grin in his voice even through the mayhem.
We worked like clockwork—he covered my six, I cleared the front. When it was over, Blake’s bullet-riddled body slumped against the designer couch, blood pooling around his expensive rug. Riven walked over, grabbed him by the collar, and dragged the corpse to my feet, tossing it down with a smug grin.
"Debt paid," he said, breathless and exhilarated.
We were fire and fury back then—unshakable, unstoppable, a force no one dared to challenge. That memory now tastes like ash on my tongue.
The guards drag him in.
His face is a canvas of brutality—swollen beyond recognition, with a jagged swell where his nose used to be. It’s twisted off-center, angled grotesquely as if it had been crushed sideways beneath a boot. Bruises bloom along his cheekbone, his lips are crusted with dried blood. Yet, he glares at me with unrelenting defiance.
His shirt is ripped down the center, streaked in blood, the fabric clinging to his torso where fresh bruises rise beneath the skin. Blood seeps from a gash on his brow, trailing down his temple in jagged rivulets. Despite it all, he stands upright, teeth clenched so tight the veins in his neck strain beneath his skin. He looks like hell—like a man crushed, but not broken.
"Get out," I order the guards.
They hesitate only for a breath before the door clanks shut behind them.
This is personal.
Riven straightens, spits blood on the floor between us, and meets my stare with venom. "You gonna kill me, Laz?"
My fist answers for me. The first hit lands across his jaw, snapping his head sideways. The next crushes into his ribs, and I feel the crunch of cartilage beneath my knuckles. He groans, staggering—but he stays on his feet. He always does.
I drive him against the wall with a brutal slam, hand tightening around his throat.
"You were my brother. You bled with me. You swore an oath in fire and steel. And you fucking spit on it."
His split lips stretch into a bitter grin. "Your father killed my sister. You inherited his empire, but you never questioned the cost."
I slam him against the wall again, fury ripping through me, but this time my voice cracks—not with weakness, but with the weight of a thousand unanswered questions.
"You could’ve told me," I say, breath sharp. "You could’ve talked to me— said anything. You know I would’ve listened. I would’ve done something for me. Did you hate me this whole time?"
His chest heaves. He tilts his head, eyes dark with something I can’t name. "Yes. I did. Every day. You never saw it. That’s what made it easier."
A bitter laugh escapes my throat. Not amused. Just empty. "Then there’s nothing left to say, is there?"
He nods faintly. "There never was."
And somehow, that truth hits harder than any blade ever could.
Another punch. Then another. My fists move without thought, each blow more savage than the last, fueled by a fury I can’t contain. Bone smashes into bone, the sharp crack echoing through the chamber like gunfire. His skin splits under my knuckles, blood pouring in thick rivers, metallic and warm,. A groan escapes him, but I keep going. His head jerks back with the next blow, his mouth open in a soundless scream as another fist meets his already broken nose. His blood coats my knuckles, slick and hot, dripping down to my wrist, painting me in betrayal. Still, I continue. I want him to feel every second of what he's done. I want every bruise, every break, every drop of agony to brand him with the price of his disloyalty.
He collapses to his knees, gasping, ribs heaving violently, sweat mingling with the streaks of blood running down his chest. I reach for the knife tucked into my belt—its steel glinting under the dim light—and step closer.
"You’re not worthy of a clean death."
I kneel beside him, gripping his shoulder with one hand while pressing the blade into his side with the other. I don’t stab—it’s not that quick. I push, inch by inch, letting the steel tear through muscle and sinew. His scream shreds the air, guttural and animalistic, a sound that echoes through the cell like it came out of hell itself. His back arches from the pain, limbs twitching. Blood bubbles at the wound, spilling over my hand. I twist the knife cruelly, dragging it slightly before pulling it out with a wet squelch.
"You should’ve aimed higher," I say, twisting the knife, driving the point in deeper until his body convulses.
He chokes, gasping for air, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. "I did," he hisses through gritted teeth. "But she was stronger than you expected."
My heart stutters. For a second, I go still, the force of his words hitting me like a freight train.
Calista. Of course it’s her.
I rip the blade free with a violent jerk, blood slick and warm on my palm. Riven slumps forward with a strangled groan, limbs twitching as his strength begins to drain.
I stare at him—this traitor, this liar, this brother who’d sold everything for revenge—and suddenly, the thought of her in his crosshairs fuels the fire in my chest like nothing else ever has.
I raise my gun. No speeches. No forgiveness.
This isn’t vengeance. It’s justice.
One shot. Echoing.
Riven collapses.
And the hush that follows is heavier than the bullet I fired.
"Ethan, clean this shit up." My voice is rough and loud, still echoing with fury as I stare at Riven’s body. I know he’s out there, just beyond the door, waiting for the cue.
It creaks open. Ethan steps in, slow and cautious.
“Yeah… boss.”
His response is quiet, but I catch the edge in his tone. I can see the question in his eyes—what kind of chaos did Riven drag us into? Hell, I’m asking myself the same damn thing.
XXX
I stand in the kitchen, scrubbing the blood off my hands under icy water. The water runs dark red, swirling down the sink, turning pink before finally running clear. My knuckles are torn open, skin cracked and raw, the ache dull beneath the storm in my chest.
I glance up at the faucet and catch a warped reflection—bruised knuckles, bloodshot eyes, hollow cheeks.
A stranger.
No, worse—a man I promised myself I’d never become. Don Corrado’s son.
His shadow.
I hear his voice again in my head—rough, cold, echoing from years past: "One day, you’ll understand, son."
I remember the first time he took me to an interrogation, when I was only five. He stood tall in that blood-soaked room, executioner and judge, as he shot two men without blinking. Their bodies dropped like discarded cloth. I remember my small hand trembling in his grip, the metallic scent of blood, the way his coat brushed my shoulder as he turned to me and said, "Power comes with pain. Mercy is weakness."
And now, looking at myself, I realize he was right about one thing—I do understand now. I just hate that I do.
Footsteps shuffle behind me—soft, hesitant.
Calista stands in the doorway. Barefoot. Her eyes scanning me, quietly.
"You okay?" she asks.
I stay quiet and turn to leave, walking past her like a shell of myself, numb and distant.
But she steps in front of me, one hand pressing gently to my chest. Her warmth bleeds through the storm inside me, grounding me in place.
I stop.
She moves closer, wrapping her arms around me. Slowly. Carefully. Like she’s not sure if I’ll break or lash out. I stay still, letting her hold me.
I return the embrace. It's hesitant at first—my arms circling her stiffly, like I'm not sure how to hold something so soft in a world this brutal. But then I give in, just a little. My fingers press into the curve of her back. For a few fleeting seconds, it almost feels right. Human. Real. And I hate that I need it as much as I do. Her scent—clean, soft, familiar—fills the space between us. I bury my face in her hair and they smell amazing – a mix of vanilla and jasmine. And for a second, it feels so good. It feels so human.
"It’s okay," she whispers, voice barely audible.
And I want to believe her. I want to stay in that embrace just a little longer. But I can’t.
The hug lasts longer than I expected. Her fingers press gently at the base of my spine, her body molded to mine like a fragile shield, and I feel myself absorbing her warmth like a lifeline I didn’t realize I was reaching for. I breathe her in—soft, warm, grounding—and for a few rare seconds, it overshadows everything else. The rage. The grief. The guilt. My arms tighten around her, just slightly, before the walls start rising again, and I force myself to let go.
When I look into her eyes, there's sympathy there. Soft, raw, piercing through the cracks I’ve tried to keep sealed. I hate it. I hate that she sees me like this—fractured. Weak. Vulnerable.
"I need to be alone," I murmur, the words ragged in my throat.
She nods, blinking away the tears in her eyes.
I retreat to my room, close the door behind me with more force than I intended.
Leaving her in the kitchen. And leaving myself behind in the reflection.