Chapter 25 – Kieran
The detonation rumbles low, muffled by velvet drapes and thick walnut walls lining the Veyra mansion’s back corridors. The boom shakes dust loose from the ornate cornices, sending a plume of smoke clawing down the hall as the side entrance to Dante’s study blasts open in a flash of powder and fury.
The hinge snaps with a shrill metal scream, splitting the quiet like a throat being cut. Then comes the hush, real and deep, swallowing the thunder’s echo and leaving only the sound of my breath, heavy and locked tight in my chest.
I move fast, right hand gripping the combat knife, left steady on the silenced pistol as heat seeps through my jacket. My boots crunch over shattered glass as I cross the threshold, smoke curling up the arched ceiling behind me like a phantom trailing my steps.
Every bullet I dodged had his initials carved into it, I think, my pulse pounding a rhythm in my skull. The corridor stretches ahead, dim and narrow, and I spot the first target ten feet down.
He hears me too late, head turning slow, mouth gaping as I close the gap in three strides. My knife sinks under his chin, angled sharp and up, twisting hard—his body jerks once, legs folding like wet paper, blood splashing muted onto the carpet.
I yank the blade free, wiping it quick on his sleeve as I take the next ten feet at a run. My heart slams in time with each step, a drumbeat driving me deeper into this gilded hellhole Dante calls home.
Second guard rounds the corner ahead, rifle already up, mid-shout as our eyes lock in the smoky haze. I dive left, his bullet slamming into the wood paneling where my head was a heartbeat ago, splinters spraying like shrapnel across my path.
I roll hard, pistol snapping up as he pivots, finger twitching on the trigger for another shot. Two quick pulls of my own—one misses, whining past his ear, the second clips his shoulder, red blooming fast as he screams and drops the rifle.
He lunges at me barehanded, a snarl twisting his face, but I’m ready, slamming my shoulder into his chest with all my weight. His wrist cracks under my grip, a wet snap he doesn’t feel yet, and I drive my knee into his gut, elbow crashing into his neck—he’s deadweight before he hits the floor.
I don’t stop, pushing off his limp form as I round the final corner, breath tight in my lungs like a coiled fist. Blood on my hands cools fast, tacky against the knife’s hilt, a reminder of the cost ticking up with every step I take.
Then the third one steps out, moving smooth, like he’s been waiting in the wings for this exact moment. He doesn’t shout, doesn’t hesitate—just fires, the shot slashing through my shoulder above the collarbone, white heat exploding down my arm.
I drop the pistol, staggering as pain flares bright, but he’s charging now, thinking he’s got me reeling.
He doesn’t make it.
I catch him low, grabbing his belt, flipping him over my hip with a grunt as he crashes hard onto the marble, breath knocked clean out of him. My knife’s gone, lost in the scuffle, so I snatch a jagged shard of crystal from the chandelier wreckage embedded in the wall.
I drive it deep into his thigh, twisting as he howls, blood gushing hot over my knuckles. His gun’s mine now—I rip it from his hand, slamming his head into the floor with a crack, and he goes still, a ragdoll in the smoke.
I limp into the study, blood trailing thick from my shoulder, and there he sits—Dante Veyra, perched behind his desk like a king mourning his own crown. He sips red wine from a crystal glass, crimson swirling like blood he’s claimed, no panic in his eyes, just a calm that chills me deeper than the wound throbbing in my flesh.
“Didn’t think you had the balls,” he says, voice smooth as he swirls the glass, appraising me like I’m meat on a hook. My hand trembles at my side—not from fear, but from the leash of restraint I’m fighting to hold, my boots grinding blood and glass into his imported rugs.
“I’ve had them,” I say, stepping closer, my voice rough with the weight of years clawing up my throat. “You just never saw past the leash you thought you tied around my neck, you smug bastard.”
He smirks, leaning back in his leather chair, wine glass balanced casual in one hand while the pistol rests beside him, polished and waiting. “Still someone’s dog, I see,” he says, eyes glinting dark, “Benedetto’s now? Or that girl with the ash on her hands and her daddy’s sins in her veins?”
My chest burns, shoulder pulsing in time with his taunts as I take another step, blood dripping steady from my fingers. “She looks like Enzo, you know,” he continues, voice cutting deeper, “around the mouth—same defiance, same guilt dressed up as grit.”
I don’t answer, jaw tight as I close the gap, boots squelching in a pool of some dead guard’s blood.
“She’s trouble,” he says, smirking wider, swirling the wine like it’s a game he’s already won. “You could’ve ruled, Kieran,” he adds, voice low and mocking as he sets the glass down with a soft clink. “Instead, you chose ghosts and women with unfinished fathers, loyalty over power—how quaint and pathetic.”
“You killed Benedetto,” I say, voice steady despite the fire licking up my side, the memory of that kid’s broken body flashing red behind my eyes.
He shrugs, casual as if swatting a fly, saying, “No I didn’t, Rizzi did. All I did was give him a chance to prove himself, and he failed, simple as that.”
“He was seventeen,” I growl, fists clenching as I step closer, the rug soaking up more blood under my boots.
“Then he should’ve learned faster,” Dante replies, voice cold, his eyes glinting like he’s daring me to snap.
I lunge forward, no warning, no hesitation, my hand slamming the pistol off the desk before he can grab it. It skids across the wood and clatters to the floor as we crash together, shoulder to chest, my wound screaming white-hot, but I shove the pain down deep.
His fist cracks into my jaw, a burst of stars blurring my vision as I taste copper on my tongue. I slam his head into the desk, wood splintering under the hit, blood spraying from his nose as he kicks me back hard into a bookshelf.
Leather-bound ledgers tumble loose, thudding around us as he grabs a crystal decanter from the shelf, smashing it into my ribs with a wet crunch. I stagger, pain exploding sharp, but shove him off, blood dripping from my mouth as I spit red onto his pristine carpet.
He lunges again, fists swinging wild, and we hit the floor hard, rolling in a tangle of sweat and fury. His hands claw for my throat, nails raking my skin, and mine find his, fingers closing tight, squeezing with everything I’ve got left in me.
Strangling a man isn’t clean—it’s raw, sweaty, a slow grind of breath and bone as we thrash on the rug. His fingers gouge my face, tearing at my cheek, then dig into my wounded shoulder, ripping a snarl from my throat as blood gushes fresh down my arm.
I press harder, knees pinning his hips, feeling his pulse hammer under my grip as his eyes bulge wide. His feet kick frantic, heels scraping the floor, one catching my shin and splitting the skin, warm red trickling down into my boot.
He claws at my side, nails slicing through my shirt, dragging bloody furrows across my ribs as I tighten my hold. “Die, you fuck,” I rasp, voice hoarse, my thumbs digging into his windpipe until his kicks slow, his hands flailing weaker against my chest.
His face purples, veins popping under his skin, a wet gurgle bubbling from his throat as I squeeze tighter still. Then—stillness, his body slumping limp beneath me, eyes wide and empty, staring up at nothing as the light fades out.
I stumble back, hands slick with his blood and mine, my side burning where he tore me open, my shoulder a pulsing mess of heat and pain.
“I thought vengeance would feel like victory,” I think, breath ragged as I stare at his corpse slumped in the chair, mouth gaping, blood pooling under his shattered nose. “It felt like drowning. Quieter than usual.”
I spit blood onto the rug, a thick gob landing near his limp hand, the wine glass shattered at his feet in a puddle of red and glass. My vision swims, edges tunneling dark, but I force myself up, boots dragging heavy as I turn toward the door.
Smoke curls in from the blasted hallway, thick and acrid, licking at the velvet curtains as a fire alarm kicks up—sharp, high-pitched, shrieking panic through the mansion. I clutch my side, blood seeping between my fingers, the other hand bracing the wall as I stagger forward, each step a knife in my gut.
I don’t pick up the pistol still lying on the floor, its shine dulled by the smoke and my fingerprints. My shoulder throbs, a steady drip painting the carpet as I limp past his body, his open eyes following me like a curse I’ve earned.
“Should’ve stayed down,” I mutter, voice cracking as I kick his outstretched leg, blood smearing on my boot from the gash in his thigh. A crystal shard juts from his flesh, a jagged trophy of the fight, glinting wet in the dim light as I step over him.
My side’s a mess, shirt soaked red where he clawed me, skin hanging loose in strips I can feel with every breath. I press harder, fingers slick, trying to staunch the flow as I stumble toward the door, the alarm’s wail drilling into my skull.
I don’t look back—Dante’s dead stare, the shattered glass, the blood-soaked rug—they’re a chapter I’ve closed with my bare hands. The hallway looms ahead, smoke thicker now, curling around my legs like it’s pulling me back, but I keep moving, one step, then another.
My vision narrows, black creeping in, but I grit my teeth, tasting more blood as I bite my tongue to stay sharp. “Not yet,” I growl, dragging myself forward, the wall cool under my palm as I brace against it, leaving a smeared red trail behind.
The devil had breath left, I think, a whisper in my head as I reach the threshold, the gala’s distant music drowned by the alarm.
“I made sure it was his last,” I say aloud, voice lost in the shriek as I step into the haze, blood dripping steady from my torn side.
The mansion’s alive with chaos now, screams echoing faint beyond the smoke, but I’m already gone, a shadow limping free of the king’s tomb.