Page 139 of Dark Romeo

We were a long, long way from help here. And Jesus never tread upon this land.

Marco strode up alongside the victim and pointed a gun at his head. “This sonofabitch was trying to steal from us,” he yelled, his voice like the crack of a gunshot, his face overripe, veins straining at the neck.

Around us, brightly colored parrots fled in terror. The sun hid her face behind a cloud. The faces of workers pressed against all the panes of glass of the buildings.

My father turned to me. “Roman, here is an opportunity for you to show us just what kind of leader you are.”

His dark eyes pinned me down. Don’t disappoint me, they seemed to threaten.

Around me I saw the sneers of my brother’s soldiers, heard the unspoken doubt that I had the balls to command as my father and brother did. Quieter, underneath the hostility, I sensed the collective held breath of the powerless workers. Would I be a tyrant just like my father, or would I show mercy?

“What has he stolen?” I asked.

Abel sneered. “Money. Drugs. What does it matter?”

Marco and Abel shared a uniting look, two men who have recognized that each other share a common enemy.

I shifted slightly. “How do we know he stole?—”

“I am telling you he stole from our family. From us. From you,” Marco said, his voice booming like a megaphone. “Are you calling me a liar?”

I swear I heard Abel chuckle.

My eyes found the man still on his knees in front of me. He was begging now, his soft chanting now broken by hiccups and repressed sobs. His hands were clasped in front of him as best as he could with his elbows being held back. His fingers, despite being dirty, were elegant, long and distinctly feminine. If he had been born in another situation, perhaps he would have been a musician.

My windpipe felt crushed. This man would have no trial. He would get no fairness bestowed upon him. An unlucky birth had given him a cruel past but his future I would single-handedly tear from him. I could show him no mercy. No matter how much my soul screamed for it.

I could feel all their eyes on me. Waiting for my verdict, my judgment, my punishment. If I wasn’t harsh enough, I’d be laughed at. Accused of being weak, of having too much of a heart. I’d never make it out of here alive. I’d never live to dismantle this poisonous inheritance of mine.

If I wanted to survive, I had to be ruthless.

If I wanted to bring down the Tyrell empire from within, I had to first become like my father.

I had to walk like him, talk like him, punish like him.

I tore my eyes away from the accused and shut off his prayers from my ears.

No mercy.

A greater good. My chest swelled with purpose.

“Bring all the other workers outside and tell them what he’s done,” I said. “String him up, shoot him in front of them. Leave his body for the vultures and jaguars.” A bullet to the head would be the kindest thing for him now. It would be a quick death, a painless one. I would make sure that his family received an anonymous windfall. Measly restitution for the death of a loved one, but it was the best that I could do.

“Excellent plan,” my father said. “That’ll teach the rest of them never to steal from a Tyrell.” He turned to me. Like a father bestowing a toy at Christmas, he said, “You can be the one to punish him.”

I was too numb at this point to flinch. This “kindness” from my father, I had been expecting.

“Perhaps,” Marco said, his tone deceptively helpful, “shooting him would be too kind.” He uncoiled a rough python of a whip from his belt and held it out. “This would make a more painful and effective punishment.” His eyes glittered at me, mocking me, daring me to take it.

Don’t flinch. Don’t you dare flinch, Roman.

I took the whip, weighing the rough handle in my hands. The knotted tail had been stained with something dark brown. Blood.

Marco sneered at me, a hatred etched into his features. He was jealous. His baby brother being raised up higher than him in front of all his men. I needed to be careful tonight that I didn’t have my throat slit in my sleep. “Careful you don’t whip yourself, brother.”

They tied the man up with his back to me. The coward in me was thankful I couldn’t see his face.

His crying sounded muffled in my ears as if I were drowning underwater. My vision had taken on a blurry quality. And when I lifted my arm to make the first strike, it didn’t feel like my arm. I was merely an observer, watching through another’s eyes.

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