Chapter 8 - The Price of an Empire
“Put your weapons down,” Arthur hissed, his face turning an ugly shade of mottled red as he realized he had been outmaneuvered. “You shoot us, and my men outside flood this entire estate with enough C4 to level the peninsula!”
“Your men outside are currently tied up in the driveway, Uncle,” Roman replied calmly, his voice dripping with absolute lethal authority. He took another step forward, closing the distance between them. “You always were arrogant, Arthur. You thought because my father let you handle the logistics, you understood power. Power isn’t a charter. It isn't a piece of paper signed in blood twenty years ago. Power is what I’m holding in my hand right now.”
Arthur’s eyes darted frantically around the room, assessing the angles, calculating his odds, and finally realizing there were none. His mercenaries slowly lowered their weapons, looking toward their employer for a command that never came.
“You’re going to kill your own blood?” Arthur whispered, panic finally breaking through his arrogant facade.
“You stopped being family the moment you let outsiders into my home while my wife was standing at the altar,” Roman said coldly.
He didn’t hesitate. He raised his sidearm and fired once.
The deafening crack of the gunshot echoed off the vaulted marble ceiling. Arthur Duca stumbled backward, dropping his crystal glass of scotch as he collapsed onto the Persian rug, clutching his shoulder, wide-eyed and gasping for air.
The remaining mercenaries dropped their weapons to the floor, raising their hands in immediate surrender.
Victor stepped forward, kicking the scattered shotguns away with his boot and binding Arthur’s hands behind his back with industrial zip-ties.
I stood there in the center of the carnage, watching the man who had ordered the assassination of my wedding party bleed onto the floor. I didn’t feel pity. I didn’t feel triumph. I just felt an overwhelming, heavy sense of finality.
The ghosts of the past twenty years—the fire, the forged birth certificates, the terror in my mother’s eyes, the cold arithmetic of my wedding day—were finally being laid to rest in the dirt where they belonged.
Roman turned around, walking back toward me through the smoke and broken glass. He stopped just inches away, his dark eyes searching my face for any sign of fear, weakness, or regret.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice rough and quiet.
May you like
I looked down at the white gauze wrapped around my palm, then up into the eyes of the man who had kidnapped me into a marriage of convenience, only to tear down an entire criminal empire to keep me breathing.
“No,” I whispered, lifting my chin. “I think, for the first time in my life, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
