Chapter 10
Cassius
My hands go up instinctively, slowly, palms visible.
In the nine years I've been running this empire, I've had guns pointed at me countless times.
Usually by men desperate enough to think they could take what's mine, or cops stupid enough to think they could arrest me.
This is different. This is her.
And she looks like she knows exactly how to use that weapon.
"Hello, Cassius." Her voice is eerily calm, steady as the gun in her hands. Each word precisely enunciated, like she's been practicing this moment. "Come in."
She's still wearing my collar.
The diamonds catch the hallway light, beautiful and obscene against the pale column of her throat.
The contrast is jarring—precious gems and deadly steel, my mark of ownership and her father's instrument of justice.
Below the collar, she's dressed in simple black—leggings and an oversized sweater.
She looks younger like this, vulnerable, except for the gun that says otherwise.
Her stance is professional.
Feet planted, grip proper, finger resting on the trigger guard but ready to move.
Someone taught her, or she taught herself.
Either way, she's not playing games.
"Selene—"
"Come. In." Each word is precisely enunciated, like she's giving orders to a subordinate. "Close the door behind you. Lock it."
The authority in her voice stops my argument completely.
This isn't the submissive girl who begged for my approval.
This is someone else entirely. Someone dangerous.
I step inside, movements careful and deliberate.
The gun follows my chest, never wavering, maintaining that perfect kill shot distance.
She backs away as I enter, maintaining control, maintaining space.
The power dynamic between us has shifted so completely it's like walking into an alternate universe where prey becomes predator.
"Turn around and lock the door."
I comply, hyperaware of the weapon at my back.
The sound of the deadbolt engaging feels like a death knell.
When I turn back, she's moved to the center of the room, gun trained on me.
The apartment looks like a war zone.
Papers are scattered everywhere, broken glass glinting on the hardwood, her coffee table overturned, a laptop destroyed against the far wall.
But underneath the chaos, there’s a method to her madness—manila folders spread in neat piles, photographs pinned to the wall like a detective's murder board, legal documents arranged specifically.
She's built a case against me. A fucking airtight case, by the look of it.
"Impressive," I say, taking in the scope of evidence surrounding us. "Very thorough."
"I learned from the best." Her smile is sharp enough to cut. "Sit."
She gestures to a chair in the center of the room with the gun barrel.
The chair is positioned strategically—away from exits, away from windows, away from anything I could use as a weapon or shield.
She's thought this through, planned every detail.
The girl who used to beg for my touch has orchestrated my capture.
I sit slowly, keeping my hands visible on my thighs. "You've been busy."
"Nine years of evidence doesn't organize itself." She remains standing, gun trained on the center of my body. "Though I suppose you'd know that, considering how thoroughly you cleaned up after yourself."
The accusation hangs in the air like smoke.
I scan the evidence she's assembled—crime scene photos, bank records, witness statements that should have been destroyed years ago. The photo that started it all is prominently displayed: me entering Judge Romano's house, grainy but unmistakable.
"How did you get all this?"
"Does it matter? It's all here. Every murder, every cover-up, every life you destroyed to protect your empire." She takes a step closer, gun still steady. "My father was more thorough than you gave him credit for. Hidden copies, backup files, evidence scattered across multiple locations."
Smart man. Smarter than I'd realized.
"The question is," she continues, "what am I going to do with it?"
I study her face in the dim light.
She's been crying—her eyes are red-rimmed, mascara smudged—but there's steel underneath the pain now.
The broken girl seeking darkness has become something sharper, more dangerous.
"Are you going to kill me?"
"I'm considering it." She tilts her head, the same gesture I've seen her make a thousand times, but now it looks predatory. "Do you think I should?"
The question hangs between us like a blade.
Honest answer? Part of me thinks she'd be justified.
Part of me has been waiting nine years for this reckoning.
Part of me is almost relieved it's finally here.
"That's your choice to make."
"Yes, it is." She moves closer, just outside arm's reach but still in perfect shooting range. "For the first time in my adult life, I get to make a choice that isn't influenced by your manipulation. Do you have any idea what that feels like?"
"Enlighten me."
"Terrifying. Liberating. Fucking devastating." Her voice cracks slightly. "I've spent nine years making decisions I thought were mine, only to discover they were all part of your grand design."
The pain in her voice cuts deeper than any blade could.
I did this to her. Created this moment, this choice, this impossible situation where the woman I love has to decide whether to kill me.
"Selene—"
"Don't." The word cracks like a whip. "Don't you dare use that voice on me. The one that made me melt, made me submit, made me beg for more. I know what it is now—another tool in your arsenal of psychological bullshit."
She's right, and we both know it.
Every tone, every inflection, every carefully calculated moment of tenderness was designed to bind her to me.
The girl who should have been my enemy became my greatest weakness.
"Tell me about Judge Romano," she says, her anger radiating off her. Her voice becomes crisp, professional. "Tell me about Judge Kowalski."
"You already know."
"I know facts. Dates, times, methods. I want to hear it from you.
I want your confession." She takes a single step closer.
Not close enough to reach, but close enough that I can see the vein in her throat pulsing against the edge of the collar.
She's not asking. She's demanding. "Start with Romano. "
I look at the gun, at her steady hands, at the evidence surrounding us like an indictment.
She's going to get her answers one way or another.
The question is whether I die before or after giving them.
"Romano wouldn't cooperate," I begin, choosing my words carefully. "Wouldn't take money, wouldn't throw cases, wouldn't look the other way. He was going to sentence three of our biggest dealers to consecutive life sentences instead of the concurrent terms we'd negotiated."
"So, you killed him."
"I solved a business problem."
The words sound cold even to my own ears.
Clinical. Like I'm discussing quarterly reports instead of murder.
Her jaw tightens, finger shifting slightly on the trigger. "How?"
"Does it matter?"
"Humor me."
I lean back in the chair, careful not to make any sudden movements. "Made it look like a heart attack. Succinylcholine injection—mimics cardiac arrest, breaks down in the system within hours. Untraceable if the coroner doesn't know what to look for."
"And you made sure he didn't know what to look for."
"The coroner was very accommodating, for the right price."
She absorbs this information with frightening calm. "Kowalski?"
"Similar situation. He was building cases against our money laundering operations, had traced several shell companies back to us. Wouldn't listen to reason."
"You mean bribes."
"I prefer the term incentives."
"How did he die?"
"Car accident. Brake line failure on a winding mountain road. Very tragic."
"You sabotaged his car."
"Vincent handled the technical details. I approved the operation."
Each confession seems to hit her even harder, but she doesn't waver.
She doesn't lower the gun.
If anything, her grip gets steadier with each revelation.
"How many others?" she asks.
"Others what?"
"How many other judges, prosecutors, police officers, witnesses—how many people have you murdered to protect your empire?"
I consider lying, minimizing the damage.
But she has evidence, and lies will only make this worse.
"Seventeen, over the past decade. Not counting your parents."
The number hangs in the air like a death sentence.
Her face goes pale, but the gun never moves.
"Nineteen people. Nineteen lives, cut short because they inconvenienced you."
"Nineteen threats eliminated to protect hundreds of employees, thousands of customers, billions in economic activity." I meet her eyes. "Everything has a cost, Selene. The question is whether you're willing to pay it."
"And my parents?" Her voice drops to a whisper. "What was their cost?"
This is it.
The question that's been waiting nine years to be asked.
The moment that will determine whether I walk out of here alive.
I meet her eyes, see the pain and rage and desperate hope that maybe, somehow, this isn't what she thinks it is.
I destroy that hope with the truth.
"Your father was building a RICO case that would have brought down everything. Not just me, but my father, Vincent, three generations of what my family created. He had evidence of money laundering, witness testimony, financial records—enough to dismantle everything."
"So, you killed him."
"I eliminated the threat."
"He was a good man!"
"He was a liability."
"He was trying to stop monsters like you!"
"He was trying to destroy the livelihood of hundreds of people who depend on this organization. Dock workers, truckers, restaurant owners, gallery operators—legitimate businesses that exist because of the foundation we built."
"Built on blood and corruption!"
"Built on necessity. On the understanding that someone has to control the darkness in this city, and it might as well be us."
She's shaking now, gun trembling in her grip. "And my mother? What threat did she pose?"
The question I've been dreading.
The one that has no good answer.