Page 103 of The Beautiful Dead

“Remi,” Bernard cut in, dipping his head. “A pleasure to finally meet you.”

His gaze flicked to Remi, something dark passing through his expression before he extended a hand. Remi hesitated but shook it.

“Make sure he’s?—“

“He will be safe within these walls,” Bernard said firmly, his voice edged with steel. “Wherever he may need to go...”

“Good.”

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “My loyalty is to you and you alone.”

Shock crashed over me, the indifference in my cold mask unbreakable. The implication of his words was not lost on me. He’d chosen a side when lines hadn’t even been drawn in the sand.

And with that, Bernard ushered him away. “This way, Remi. Let’s get you a drink.”

Their voices faded as they disappeared into the vast house, and I turned, heading in the opposite direction toward the great room where Federico liked to hold his meetings when numbers were required as a show of strength. His frailty was becoming evident in his need to amass his men to his cause.

The hallway stretched before me, dark walls lined with portraits of DeMarcos past. Cold, judging faces stared down at me. A legacy I’d been trained to want. A legacy I’d been promised. But as with all things in this world, it was built on an insurmountable mountain of blood and lies.

Power. Control. Death.

That was the true inheritance Federico DeMarco wanted to pass on to me—not this compound, his millions, or his kingdom of cowards. And I didn’t want it.

I craved something else. Destruction. Annihilation. Power that would be granted to me not by men but by gods. I didn’t want an army. I wanted death itself to bow at my feet. I wanted to wield it like a weapon.

Blood-slicked hands. Final heartbeats. Glazed-over eyes staring into nothing. That was power. That’s what I wanted, and it was mine for the taking.

The double doors loomed ahead, thick mahogany polished to a gleam. Beyond them, voices rumbled—low, sharp-edged words laced with irritation and restraint. Twelve men, maybe more. My father’s inner circle.

Federico DeMarco didn’t tolerate incompetence. If you made it to his table—his inner sanctum— it meant you were ruthless, loyal, and fucking useful.

As I pushed the doors open and strode through, the conversation died. Words collapsed into silence as every head turned in my direction. The sudden stillness was suffocating, a vice wrapped around the room.

At the center of the Great Room—what the lower ranks called the War Room—a long, dark wooden table stretched, large enough to seat twenty. At its head, Federico sat like a king rotting on his throne, his enforcers and advisors flanking him like well-dressed jackals.

Cigar smoke curled through the air, thick and heavy, filtered by the weak sunlight from the wall of glass that overlooked the manicured gardens. Whiskey glinted in an array of cut crystal glasses on the table, untouched, forgotten.

I didn’t rush as they waited. I circled them. Slow. Controlled. Letting the silence stretch, letting it grow thick enough to choke. My gaze landed on each of them in turn—men who had ordered deaths, conquered territory, and broken men beyond repair. They would stab each other in the back in a heartbeat if it meant they were another rung up the ladder.

One by one, they dropped their gazes in begrudging deference. They knew who held the real power in the room. Who held their life and the lives of their families in the palm of their hand.

A room full of powerful men—made men—flinched before me.

Their fear was a heady fucking thing.

Federico exhaled sharply, his scornful scoff cutting through the silence like a blade. He leaned back in his chair, draping one arm casually over the side, but I didn’t miss the tremor in his fingers. His face was unreadable, but his eyes? They burned with hate.

“Domino.” His voice rasped, low but firm. “Sit.”

I didn’t. “Father,” I greeted evenly.

His jaw ticked. “You took your time.”

I tilted my head. “I didn’t realize we were on a schedule.” My voice was light. Mocking. “Traffic was… hectic in the city.”

Federico’s fingers drummed once against the table before stilling. A warning. “Don’t test me, boy.”

I smirked, slow and sharp. Not a single ounce of warmth in it. His nostrils flared. He was waiting for me to fold. I never did.

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