Chapter 35 #2
“Sounds like you’re jealous, Victor. Did your daddy not hug you enough when you were little? Do you really feel that entitled to power that was never yours?”
Victor laughed bitterly, the sound jagged and broken.
“Entitled? I took what should have been mine. Not what I felt entitled to, what I earned.”
A collective murmur swept through the room.
Bea tilted her head. “And the shipment?”
Victor’s mouth curled into something cruel. “If he couldn’t protect it, he didn’t deserve to keep it.”
Nico inhaled sharply.
Dimitri’s face hardened into something brutal and empty.
Bea took another step closer, her voice dropping until the whole room leaned in to hear.
“And their father?”
Victor’s face changed. There. That was the real wound. The room held its breath.
Bea’s eyes flashed. “Let’s talk about that, Victor.”
“Bea,” Dimitri said, low and dangerous, a warning.
She didn’t stop. “You were there when their father died, weren’t you?” she asked. “Close enough to watch. Close enough to step into the gap after.” Her mouth curved. “Tell me, did you plan that too? Or did opportunity just fall into your lap?”
Victor lashed out , “Their father was weak!” he roared, spittle flying. “All of them were weak! I built this family back up with my bare hands while he played king in tailored suits and expensive offices. I made this empire survivable!”
The ballroom exploded with whispers, gasps, shocked exclamations. Victor didn’t hear them. Bea had him.
Had him so deep in his own rage he didn’t even realize he was bleeding truth all over the marble.
“You made this empire survivable?” she asked softly.
“Yes!”
“You stole from them.”
“I was owed!”
“You betrayed them.”
“I saved them!”
“You sent a man to murder me while you planned to murder them tonight, in front of everyone, so you could claim your throne.” Her voice was calm. Loud. Clear.
Victor’s chest heaved, his face purple with rage. “I should’ve slit your throat myself, like I did their father!”
The room went dead. No whispers. No movement. Nothing. Bea just looked at him.
Then she smiled. Small. Cruel. Victorious. “Thank you.”
Victor blinked. The rage drained from his face in a rush, replaced by dawning horror. He finally understood. Understood what he’d done. What he’d said. How thoroughly she’d walked him into it.
“No,” he said hoarsely, shaking his head. “No, I didn’t-”
Bea stepped back, reading him perfectly.
Victor snapped.
He lunged for her, his body driving forward, hand reaching for her throat, his face twisted with blind, animal fury.
But Killian was faster.
He’d been moving through the crowd during Bea’s entire interrogation, positioning himself.
One second Victor was charging.
The next, Killian slammed into him hard enough to crack ribs.
Victor hit the floor on his back with a strangled grunt. Killian planted a boot in the center of his chest and yanked his gun free, pressing the barrel between Victor’s eyes.
Victor stared up at him, dazed, gasping.
Killian looked down at him with pure hatred.
Not rage. Not frenzy. Hatred. The kind that had been simmering for years. The kind that was deeply, intimately personal.
He cocked the gun, the sound echoed through the silent ballroom.
Victor’s eyes widened. “Killian, son-”
“Don’t.” Killian’s voice was low and vicious. “Do not say my name like we’re anything to each other.”
Victor swallowed hard, scrambling for the last scraps of his old authority. “I helped raise you boys.”
Killian gave a short, humorless laugh.
“No.” He stepped harder on Victor’s chest, making him wheeze. “That was our mother. You taught us nothing but how to hate and how to screw people over.”
Victor looked toward Dimitri, toward Nico, then around the room. No one moved to save him. No one said a word.
Killian crouched slightly, enough that Victor had no choice but to look directly into his face.
“You stole from my family,” Killian said. “You betrayed my brothers.” His voice dropped lower. Deadlier. “You caused a war between two families who used to be friends. You made us believe, even for a moment, that we were betrayed by someone we love.”
Victor’s breathing went ragged, panicked. Killian’s finger tightened on the trigger.
“Then you sent a man to put his hands on our woman. To take her away from us. Permanently.”
Victor shook his head frantically. “Killian, please-”
Killian smiled. Mean. Cold. Final. “You should be thankful I’m too tired to drag this out,” he said. “Because this? This is mercy compared to what I truly want to do to you.”
Victor opened his mouth to beg.
Killian didn’t give him the chance.
“Burn in hell.” The shot cracked through the ballroom.
Victor’s head snapped back. Blood sprayed across the white marble in a dark, spreading pool. He was dead before his body stopped twitching. Silence swallowed the room whole.
The smell of gunpowder mixed with spilled champagne and copper filled the air. Killian rose slowly, never taking his eyes off Victor’s corpse. Then he looked up, at the guests, at the empire that had just watched a traitor die. No one moved.
Dimitri stepped forward, his voice cutting through the stunned quiet like a blade.
“This,” he said, staring down at Victor’s body, “is what happens to anyone who betrays the Marchetti family.” His words hung in the air, heavy and absolute.
He lifted his gaze to the crowd, blue eyes hard as winter ice.
“To anyone who steals from us,” he continued. “To anyone who lies to us. To anyone who threatens the people we love.” His eyes flicked to Bea. Then back to the room. “Let tonight be remembered,” he said. “Loyalty is life. Betrayal is death.”
The guests began to leave, hurried footsteps, whispered conversations, the rustle of silk and the click of heels on marble. No one looked back.
And beneath the chandeliers, with blood pooling on the floor and Bea standing alive in the center of it all, Marco at her side, the Marchetti empire took its first breath after betrayal.
Free.
Unbroken.
Reborn.