Chapter Eighteen
Matteo
Ihold the gun steady against the bastard’s head, finger hovering over the trigger, pressure coiled so tight in my chest it’s a miracle I haven’t snapped. My pulse is so loud it drowns out everything but her.
I want him fucking dead. I want him gone for what he did to her. But this isn’t my call. It’s hers.
Emery stands in front of us, back straight, eyes burning like the fire that forged her into something unstoppable.
Fuck, she’s beautiful like this. Untouchable and unshaken. Rage and hurt carved into every breath, every inch of her defiance.
She hasn’t flinched once. Not when he begged, not when he lied. Not even when he looked her in the eye and tried to rewrite the past as if she didn’t remember every second burned into her bones.
I can’t stop watching her. Can’t stop feeling it. This need to protect her, to worship her for surviving what he tried to bury.
He’s still breathing, but only because she hasn’t told me otherwise.
And if she does… If she gives me the word, I’ll pull the trigger without blinking.
I’ll end Dante Moretti right here, right now, no fucking regrets.
Because Emery’s mine now, and no one ever hurts what’s mine and walks away from it.
She takes one step forward. There’s no fear in her eyes, just fire. She’s focused, fucking lethal.
She holds out her hand. Palm up, fingers steady. Eyes locked on mine, unblinking, unwavering, like she already knows I’ll give her what she’s asking for. What she’s fucking earned.
I freeze, for just a breath. Because fuck… A part of me believed she’d let me bear the burden. That she’d let me be the one to end him—to become the executioner she shouldn’t have to be.
I wanted to be the one to erase him from her life, to pull the trigger and wipe away his stain.
To spare her the sound, the recoil, the weight of watching his body hit the floor.
But I see it, clear as day in the way her eyes burn. In the hard line of her jaw. In the way her breath barely falters, like she’s holding the weight of the world inside her chest.
This isn’t about revenge. It’s not about blood.
It’s about reclaiming what was stolen from her—her voice, her power, her goddamn sense of self.
This isn’t my moment to take. It never was.
So I let go of the need to shield her from this, of the part of me that aches to pull the trigger. Instead, I give her what she came for. What she fought and bled for.
Because this choice, this justice, this reckoning—it’s hers. Every last piece of it.
My hand moves toward her, the weight of the gun heavy in my palm.
Her fingers graze mine, trembling slightly—barely holding herself together, as if one more touch might shatter her.
Then she takes it. Firm. Certain.
As though she’s held it a thousand times in her mind. As if the steel always belonged to her, never to me.
Her hand wraps around the grip like it’s part of her now, an extension of her rage, her grief, her goddamn will to survive.
And in that second, I know. She’s taking the power back.
She raises the gun and aims at the man who sold her out.
The muzzle meets his forehead… clean, centered, absolute.
Her finger wraps around the trigger. No twitch. No hesitation.
Just silence, thick, crushing, like it could smother us both.
I can’t breathe. My chest locked tight, the air too thick to pull in.
But I don’t move. I don’t blink.
I just watch her, the girl I love, the woman who could bring this entire fucking empire to its knees, standing there, steady. Unshaken.
She’s fucking beautiful in this moment. The way she’s holding that gun with such calm, the power in her stillness, her rage simmering just beneath the surface.
And if she pulls that trigger… If she ends this here? I won’t feel an ounce of remorse.
I’ll watch him fall like the piece of shit he is, and I won’t feel a damn thing—except the satisfaction of her finally taking back what’s hers.
I’ll hold her in the aftermath, right there on the blood-stained floor.
I’ll fuck her in his blood, and show her how much I love her.
Show her how goddamn beautiful it is when she owns everything—her pain, her power, her future.
But she pauses. And the quiet suddenly feels louder. Her eyes stay locked on him, her breath shallow but steady.
I hold my breath too, watching her. Waiting. This is her moment, and whatever she chooses, I’ll stand beside her.
Seconds crawl by, each one heavy, like the whole world is pressing down on us.
Then finally, slowly, her hand begins to lower.
The gun drifts down with it, her grip still tight, knuckles white, but it’s no longer aimed at him.
She steps back, each movement controlled like she’s shedding the last remnants of his hold on her.
The gun drops to her side as she stares him down, disgust etched into every line of her face, contempt curling at her lips—a warning in the shape of a snarl.
“Fuck you,” she says. Every word is a strike, tearing the last vestiges of his control straight from her soul. “I won’t become you. I won’t turn into a monster just because you didn’t have the spine to be a fucking father.”
And damn, my chest aches with pride. I’ve never been more in awe of her. Of how beautifully she just ripped herself free from the poison he’s spent a lifetime trying to pour into her veins.
She’s not just Emery in this moment. She’s fury wrapped in skin.
A fucking storm with a pulse. Every breath she drags in is defiance.
Every word she throws lands like fire-tipped bullets.
And I see it now… the strength that crawled through the wreckage, the fire that didn’t just survive the chaos.
She became the fucking chaos. And she’s still burning.
She doesn’t bend. Doesn’t flinch. She rises. Again and again. Like a goddamn rebellion, carved into her skin and bone.
She’s everything I’m not. Everything I was never allowed to be. And everything I fucking still crave.
I’m the lucky bastard who gets to stand beside her. The one who gets to worship her—my hands, my mouth, my cock, my body all devoted to her. Who gets to hear her fall apart when I fuck her like she’s sacred. Because she is.
She turns, her gaze locking with mine, eyes blazing with rage, pain, and power.
Without a word, she hands me back the gun. It’s not just a gesture. It’s a declaration. She didn’t need to pull the trigger to take control. She already has it.
I grab the bastard by the collar, yanking him up so hard the chair screeches across the floor. He chokes as I shove him toward the door, my grip punishing, unforgiving. Every muscle in my body’s still wired tight, adrenaline flooding through me, synced to the fury burning inside her.
I glance back, needing to see her.
Emery hasn’t moved. She stands right where she was, feet planted, shoulders squared. Eyes burning bright, like she just stepped out of hell and owned it.
She’s not the girl I used to know.
She’s something more.
And fuck, I’ve never wanted her more than I do in this moment.
It takes everything in me not to stop, not to turn around, grab her by the back of the neck, and kiss her so hard it leaves a mark.
Because right now, all I want is her. Her mouth crushed against mine, her body locked to me, her thighs hooked around my waist while my cock slides in deep and pulls a moan from her throat, my name the only goddamn thing she can remember.
But we’re not there yet.
We have to finish this first. She deserves a clean ending, real closure, before either of us can finally breathe again. Before I get to rip away every last layer between us and have her the way I’ve been dying to for years.
I keep moving, shoving the bastard toward the truck, each step weighed down by the rage still burning in my chest.
Dante stumbles, weak, pathetic.
I yank him upright by the collar, my voice dropping low, vibrating with everything I’m holding back.
“You fall again, and I’ll drag your sorry ass the rest of the way. Face first.”
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even glance in my direction. Maybe he finally understands now. This ends my way. No more fucking deals, and no more running.
Behind me, I hear Emery. Her footsteps echo in the quiet. There’s no hesitation in her stride.
When I reach the truck, I shove the bastard into the back seat without a second thought for how he lands. He grunts, his wrists twisting as I yank them behind his back, cinching the zip ties tight enough to remind him who the fuck’s in control now.
I slam the door so hard the whole frame rattles.
And then I turn.
Emery walks toward me, the wind tearing through her hair, strands whipping across her face—pure storm and salvation wrapped in one. Sunlight ignites in her eyes. Wild. Fearless. Fucking glorious. A vision made to be worshipped.
And I feel it clawing at me. The need to take her, drag her into me, bury my hands in her hair with my mouth on her skin.
I move toward her, until I’m close enough that only she can hear. Close enough to breathe her in, to feel the heat radiating off her skin.
“You’re fucking incredible,” I murmur, voice rough, low, soaked in everything I’ve been holding back. “Standing there, facing him down like that… you weren’t just strong, Em. You were a fucking queen.”
She meets my gaze, and for a moment, something soft flickers behind all that fire in her eyes.
“I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction,” she whispers, voice tight with emotion. “He’s already taken enough from me.”
“He’ll never take another fucking thing,” I say, my fingers brushing along her jaw, tilting her face toward mine.
My touch is gentle, but everything inside me is anything but.
“Not from you. Not while I’m still breathing.
” My thumb traces the edge of her cheek, possessive, steady. “You ready to do this?” I ask.
She nods, the smallest smile pulling at her lips.
I curl my fingers around hers, lead her around the front of the truck and open the passenger side door. She slides into the front seat without a word.