Page 109 of The Beautiful Dead

They knew what he was. And they knew the moment he woke up was the moment they lost their advantage. There would be hell to pay.

My gaze flicked to the man standing at the center of it all. The ice in my veins turned to steel.

Salvatore Gallo.

A legend. A ghost of the underworld. A name spoken in hushed whispers. The only man feared more than Domino himself.

He was older, maybe in his late fifties, with dark salt and pepper hair slicked back with ruthless precision. A tailored suit draped over his broad frame, power exuding from every inch of him—the kind of power that didn’t need to lift a gun to kill you. His word alone was enough to evoke fear.

He studied me like I was something insignificant. An insect beneath his shoe.

I lifted my chin. Refusing to look away. Refusing to cower. “Salva…” My voice was hoarse, throat raw. I swallowed the ache. “Gallo.”

A slow smirk curled his lips. “So, you’re the little stray that’s got my son wrapped around your finger.”

The words hit me like ice water searing against my skin. His son? Confusion flickered in my chest. What the fuck was he talking about? But before I could react, a sharp chuckle sliced through the thick silence.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart.” The voice was smooth. Amused. Dangerous.

I shifted my gaze. He was young—late twenties. Tall, lean but strong, his dark wavy hair falling in deliberate disarray. His eyes were dark, gleaming with something sharp. Mischief. And menace.

He crouched in front of me, the gun still pressed against my temple, his head tilting as he studied me.

“You’re smaller than I expected,” he mused. Mocking. “But I can see why he likes you. That pretty little mouth must be good for something.”

I didn’t flinch. Didn’t give him the satisfaction. But my blood turned to acid. Every nerve in my body itched to move. To tear. To maim. To kill. My fingers twitched with the phantom weight of a blade, desperate to drive it straight into his gut and twist.

But I stayed still. Nothing. No reaction. I refused to give him the satisfaction.

His smirk widened. “Nothing?” He tapped the gun against my temple, his voice dropping to something almost… gentle. Cruel. “Must have a real solid head on your shoulders.” A pause. “Be a shame if something happened to it.”

I stared him down. “Go ahead, then. Blow my brains out.”

He grinned. “Oh, I like this one.”

A sigh. Another voice. Colder. “Ellio, stop playing with your food.”

I shifted my gaze. This one was older. Early thirties, maybe. Sharper. Broader. His dark wavy hair was slicked back, his crisp black suit immaculate. His silver eyes held no amusement. No warmth. Only calculation.

Ellio clicked his tongue, but his smirk never wavered. “You’re no fun, Luca.”

Luca.

Ellio.

I filed their names away. But before I could think further, something shifted. The air changed. Thickened. A pulse of unrestrained violence rippled through the space.

Ellio must have felt it, too. His smirk faltered for half a second.

A low, barely there sound tugged at my soul. Domino stirred. A slow, deliberate stretch of his fingers. The first shift of his breath. His muscles tightened.

The devil was waking up.

A soft chuckle slithered through my lips, and I saw Ellio’s grip on the gun tighten. He pushed up to standing, his gun still trained on me, keeping me exactly where he wanted—a position of weakness.

It wouldn’t last because soon, my monster would open his eyes. When he did, they would all die. And I would be standing at his side, bathing in their blood.

A door creaked open somewhere behind me, the metal groaning. The men shadowing those in front of me straightened their stances and pulled their shoulders back—not in fear, but in acknowledgment, in silent respect.

---