Page 83 of The Beautiful Dead

Federico exhaled sharply, like he was bored of the conversation before it even started. His dark eyes flicked over Domino, filled with quiet, coiled disdain.

“I’m well aware of what they’re doing,” he said, tone smooth—too smooth. “It’s your job to make sure they don’t step foot in our territory.”

His lip curled, and something in his face turned predatory.

“You’re failing,” he murmured, voice like oil, thick and seeping into every crack. “You’re weak. Distracted.”

A slow, heavy silence dragged between them.

Domino scoffed, but his face had hardened to stone. His breath came slow and rasping, controlled—calculated. He knew better than to let his father see the crack in his armor.

But it was already too late.

Before Domino could even part his lips, Federico moved. Fast. Like a viper striking the moment it smells weakness. His hand wrapped around Domino’s throat, and in a single, crushing motion, he slammed him against the wall. The impact rattled the paintings.

My pulse slammed in my throat.

Domino didn’t fight. Not yet. Not while his father’s grip dug in, his fingers pressing into the tendons in his neck, into the soft hollow where he could crush his windpipe like glass.

His father leaned in close, breath ghosting over his face, stealing his air like the devil demanding obedience. “If you can’t get rid of that little piece of shit,” Federico murmured, “I’ll take matters into my own hands.”

Something in the room shifted. The air turned razor-thin, sharp enough to slice. Domino didn’t agree. Not outright. But he didn’t shut it down, either.

He knew I was watching. I felt it the second his body went taut, the way his jaw flexed, the way his eyes flicked to the hallway—to where I stood, unseen but not unnoticed.

Still, he didn’t look at me.

Didn’t acknowledge me.

Instead, he carefully steered his father away, murmuring in low, even tones, the words too soft for me to hear.

Like I didn’t exist.

Like I wasn’t the one who had bled for him.

Killed for him.

Belonged to him.

And for the first time, his actions gave my thoughts credence. I wasn’t sure if he belonged to me. Maybe I’d been another fool to fall at his feet that would soon be buried six feet under.

His father’s guard had seen me. His thick brows furrowed, his sneer curling with disgust as he raked his eyes over me. A thing to be discarded. A problem to be solved.

My eyes fluttered closed. Shut it down.Breathe. I exhaled through my nose, rolling my neck, but the tension refused to break. The charcoal slipped from my fingers and shattered against the floor. So easily broken. I crushed it beneath my boot and spun on my heel.

The walls of the penthouse pressed in on me, tightening like a noose. Too close. Too bright. I couldn’t breathe. Domino’s world was suffocating me, binding me in chains I had willingly fastened around my own throat.

His voice echoed from down the hall, low and lethal, sharp edges coated in glass. Ghost’s answer was clipped. Italian words sliced the air in rapid succession—calculated, deadly.

I moved before I could think, slipping into the elevator, my heart slamming against my ribs as the doors slid shut. The weight of everything sat heavily on my shoulders, and I just needed?—

A moment.

A moment to pretend I wasn’t his prisoner.

A moment to escape the lingering doubt coiling in my gut.

A moment to ignore the knowledge that Catalina’s blood was still on my hands. Her truth festered inside my silence.

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