Page 104 of The Beautiful Dead

My father leaned forward, planting his elbows on the table. “You think you’re ready to carry the DeMarco name?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to, just held his gaze with an unwavering intensity. A silent challenge.

Federico’s eyes narrowed. “You can’t even deal with the fucking Gallos.”

The air crackled between us.

His voice sharpened. “They’re running riot through my ports—” he paused, a correction, an afterthought. “Our ports. They’re disrupting shipments, making us look weak.”

I said nothing. Because the only one who looked weak was him. The only one who hadn’t lifted a finger or gun was him. I’d slaughtered and buried Gallos in shallow graves across our territory. I’d stained Marlow Heights red so deeply it had seeped into the foundation of the city.

And yet, Federico sat there seething.

He had always been a slave to his temper. He mistook rage for power. Control for dominance. But now, his men were watching. Measuring.

My silence was pushing him closer to the edge.

The veins in his forehead throbbed before he slammed a fist onto the table. The whiskey glasses rattled. His voice cut like steel—“And you do nothing!”

A murmur rippled down the table. Dissent. Small. But unmistakably there.

Giancarlo’s voice cut through the silence, “You sit on your hands while the Gallos piss on our empire.” His tone was cold, a calculated knife to the throat. “And yet, we still pretend Federico’s in control.”

I swallowed the laugh that climbed my throat. Eyes snapped to Giancarlo. Then to Federico. Then to me.

A hush settled as tensions rose. No one spoke, although it was clear to see silent words forming on their lips. I felt the shift before it happened. The air thickened, turning electric. Hands twitched toward weapons. Bodies shifted. A fraction of hesitation. A moment of reckoning.

I tracked my father’s movements. Watched as his lips curled, a ghost of a sneer crept onto his face. In my mind, I heard his voice. A lesson from my childhood, burned into memory.

“If anyone challenges you in the open, make it a public execution. Send that message home with their blood. Don’t show weakness.”

Federico moved as swiftly as he was able. His hand dipped beneath the table. I could read him like a child’s book. Before he could pull his gun, I moved first. My movements were swift and sure.

A knife buried deep into the wood—right between his fingers. The room erupted into chaos like the snap of an elastic band. Everything changed in a fraction of a second. Chairs scraped.Hands flew to weapons. Chaos capitulated into madness around us.

Federico’s nostrils flared, his other hand twitching toward his gun. I didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. I was already at his shoulder and leaned in slightly, voice low, almost amused. “Careful, old man,” I murmured. “You’re making it too easy for them.”

His eyes burned. Rage. Hate. But beneath it?

Fear.

Because this—this was the beginning of the end. He lost control of his most faithful flock. The king had lost his crown. As the sound of bullets rang out and the sharp scent of gunpowder filled the air, he shrank back.

A hollow laugh ripped out of my chest as he stumbled toward the sideboard—toward the hidden tunnels. No one stopped him. Not one man in the room noticed his departure. No one but me.

I pulled the Glock from my belt and fired off two rounds into the chain that held up the chandelier, crashing it down on the table. Every single man froze, arms outstretched, guns aimed at each other, but their attention was on me.

“Either fall in line and bend the knee to me or say your goodbyes in your prayers.”

The words cut the room like ice, and five men dropped to their knees, heads bowed. In less than a heartbeat, the first man fell. Then another. Then another. A bullet between the eyes.

The last thing they saw?

Me.

The doors opened to the hallway, and in stepped Bernard. “I’ll have this cleaned up right away.”

“Thank you.” My eyes narrowed when I realized he was alone. A sharp inhale was all I managed before Bernard answered my unspoken question.

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