Page 15 of Sardonic Burn

He strolls inside and places the flowers on the bedside table. He kisses my cheek and hugs me for a moment before dragging a chair from the corner of the room and sitting next to the bed.

“I’m fine,” I say. “It stings a bit, but it’s nothing major.”

“I’m here to let you know that I will be killing that motherfucker tomorrow.”

My mouth falls open. “What? Why?”

“He dared to point a blade at my pride.” Tenderly, Father brushes a fallen strand of my hair and pins it behind my ear. “How can I ever let a man like that live?”

My heart flutters, and my cheeks heat up. His voice is menacing, yet tender. I can see in his eyes just how much he’s struggling to keep his anger in check for me. If it were anyone else, he wouldn’t have batted an eyelash.

But for me?

My father would let the world burn.

“Thank you.” I smile. “But there’s no need. I’ll handle little De Santis myself.”

His eyes narrow at me. “Are you sure?”

“You gave me full authority. Don’t back down on your word.”

“If that’s what you wish,” he responds with a clear distaste for my decision. “But if he so much as lands another scratch on you, I will be revoking all of your rights and hunting him down myself.”

If we share anything, it’s the pure hatred toward that damned family.

Over the decades the feud has been happening, we haven’t been on the losing side. But it doesn’t mean we haven’t lostprecious family members. This is something I have to do for everyone that has fallen at the hands of a De Santis and for all future generations of the Campbells.

I have to do it for myself.

My hands curl into fists, and my lips thin into a line. I all but shake from anger. All of the times they hurt us, took someone from us, and then mocked us—I’ll return the favor twice as hard.

I won’t stop until I can bathe in their blood. I won’t stop until they’re all dead.

They deserve the wrath I will unleash, and they deserve all the suffering I have planned for them.

Father grabs my hand and carefully unfists it, stroking the back of it.

“Getting angry is useless, Noelle.” His stern voice eases me. “You need to have both of your eyes open at all times. Don’t allow anger to blind you because it will be your downfall. You’re smart, so I have no doubt you’ll take their heads.”

“I understand.” I respond with a weak voice. “You don’t need to worry.”

“As much as I hate to say this,” he says, a clear distaste lacing his words, “we have more pressing matters.”

I raise a brow in curiosity.

“A couple of our clients have called. Recently, someone’s been trying to bring them to the other side.”

“I’m not following.”

“As in, another family of assassins has appeared.”

My brows shoot up in bewilderment. “On our turf? With the De Santis and Campbell families running most of New York City? Do they have a death wish?”

From the stories I’ve heard ever since I was old enough to understand words, I know what our place—my place—in this world is.

My family is in oil. It’s mainly trading, but that’s just a cover-up for the illegal organization that’s been in place for the past four generations.

Five generations ago, two boys were brought to the orphanage as infants. They weren’t blood related, but they grew up as brothers. However, the orphanage was anything but a regular one.

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