Page 57 of God of War

I don't wait for him to respond, instead striding around to the passenger side to wrench open the door. I kneel beside the car, at her feet. She reaches out for me immediately, placing her hand against my cheek. Her bottom lip quivers.

"I have to go, little one," I murmur, turning my face into her palm. "I love you."

"Please be careful," she pleads, those emerald eyes eating me alive, as if she's afraid this is the last time she'll see me. But that isn't going to happen, not today or any other day. This pretty littleprincesais mine. Nothing is taking her from me—not her father, not Rojas, and certainly not death.

It takes three days to purge my organization of the stain Rojas placed upon it. I spill more blood than I can clean off, kill more than I can count. It doesn't cool my rage any.

Nothing does that until I slip through Felipe Rojas's bedroom window outside Barranquilla on day five, exhausted, covered in blood…and as calm as the goddamn eye of the storm.

I settle into an armchair in the corner to wait, a bloody bag on my lap. Patient. Cold.

He stumbles in nearly an hour after I begin my vigil, an old fucking man with a lifetime of brutality beneath his belt. He's changed since I last saw him. He's pushing seventy, his hair gray, his face lined. His hazel eyes are still the same—still cold, devoid of emotion.

He doesn't see me at first, too confident that he's untouchable in his own kingdom, that no one would dare come for him here. Most wouldn't. They're too terrified to even consider it. This man has no soul. He's a goddamn demon, hungry only for pain and misery. Seeking only to be worshipped, to rule.

But he created a monster a little bit too much like him in me. This fucking war between us twisted my soul, shaping me in his image instead of the image of my own father. I've got a little bit of demon in me too. He put it there.

He freezes when he finally sees me sitting there like I own the goddamn place.

"Qué putas?" he growls.

"What? Did you think I wouldn't come for you when I was finished killing all your fucking people, Rojas?" I ask, arching a brow, my expression cold. "You aren't that stupid, are you?"

His hand slides toward the gun at his waistband. Even here, he stays strapped. Even here, he trusts no one. I point mine at him.

"Don't even try it, motherfucker," I growl. "I'll paint the goddamn walls with your brains before you can touch it."

"You will never get out of here alive, Leyva."

"Then we'll die together, Rojas."

He eyes me critically, assessing, calculating, trying to find a way out of this, one where he manipulates me, I'm sure. But that isn't happening. There is no way out for him this time. I should have done this shit a long time ago, but he's always seemed untouchable, the goddamn boogey man I had to fight. Not anymore. I don't care if it throws the entire fucking region into chaos, upends the drug market, and my own empire. He dies tonight.

"What's in the bag, Leyva?" He nods at it.

I scoop it from my lap, tossing it across the room toward him. It lands at his feet, blood splattering the pretty white carpet.

Rojas glances at it warily.

"You like to collect things from your victims, no? I've heard that about you, Rojas. A finger. An entire hand. Some fucked-up momento so when their families look at the body, they know who was responsible and they fear you." I motion at the bag with the gun. "I collected a few for you."

He glances at me, amusement curling his lips. "These are not my victims, Leyva."

"Yeah, they are," I say softly. "All twenty-three men you planted in my organization are your responsibility, you prick. They're dead because of you. Because you can't stand to fucking fail."

"I've failed at nothing."

"The fact that I'm alive says otherwise." I smirk at him, cold and vicious. "You wanted my family gone, wanted the Leyva name to fall. You massacred my entire goddamn family to achieve it. But you never could kill me, Rojas. You were too fucking stupid to accomplish it."

"If I had wanted you dead, you would have died, Leyva," he snaps, his voice hard, angry. "Perhaps you lived because you were more useful alive. Look at what I've done,malparido. You were on the throne, and I've still infected your organization. I've still taken what I wanted, when I wanted. Your father's people wouldn't follow me outright so I gave them war. They've marched to my orders and thought they were railing against me for years."

Shit. Maybe he's right. He's kept this entire country at each other's throats, kept the entire damn drug trade in turmoil. We've fought and clawed for as long as I can remember, trying to hold him off. And he's the only one who has come out ahead.

But the game has changed. I have. I'm done dancing on strings just because I've got a fucking crown on my head. I didn't sign up for this life any more than Brynna did. So I'm not doing shit his way or anyone else's. Not anymore. It's my motherfucking way. The god of war needs to die. And so does the motherfucker who birthed him.

"Maybe so. Maybe you did infect my organization. Maybe you did have us dancing on your strings," I acknowledge, pointing the gun at him again. "But I'm fucking done, Rojas. This war is over. You never should have let your men touch her. That's what kills you in the end. Not your fucking drugs. Not your goddamn empire. A girl." My lip curls in a snarl. "You pathetic piece of shit."

Desperation lights his eyes as he lunges for me, reaching for his gun at the same time. But I've said what I came to say. Seen what I need to see. I stare him in the fucking eyes when I pull the trigger.

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