Page 55 of Forbidden Daddy
Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, but his eyes never wavered. "Roman, I swear on my mother’s grave?—"
I hit him again. Harder. The chair rocked backward, and for a moment, I thought it might tip over completely. But Sean righted himself, spitting blood onto the floor between us.
"Loyalty doesn’t stutter, Sean," I said. "It doesn’t hesitate. It doesn’t make excuses."
"I’m not making excuses!" His voice cracked with desperation. "I’m telling you the truth! Someone planted that phone, someone who wants you to think?—"
"Who?" I grabbed his shirt, hauling him forward until our faces were inches apart. "Who would want to frame you? Who has access to your quarters? Who knows your routines well enough to plant evidence?"
Sean’s eyes darted to Declan, then back to me. "Roman, think about it. The timing, the convenience?—"
"The timing is perfect," I snarled. "Three security breaches, three operations compromised, and you were present for all of them. You knew the warehouse location. You knew about the Torrino meeting. You were there when we discussed the Baltimore operation."
"So was everyone else in your inner circle!"
"But they don’t have access to my schedule. They don’t always sleep in the same house. They don’t know when I’m vulnerable."
The truth of it hit me like ice water. Sean wasn’t just my bodyguard—he was my shadow. He knew my habits, my weaknesses, my blind spots. If anyone could have fed intelligence to my enemies, it was the man I’d trusted to watch my back.
All the rage burning in my chest—Cassie’s betrayal, the mole in my organization, the constant weight of leadership crushing down on me—crystallized into something pure and lethal. Every muscle in my body coiled tight, every nerve ending screamingfor violence, for the kind of justice that could only be delivered with blood.
"The warehouse explosion killed four of my men," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carried more menace than any shout. "Good men. Loyal men. Fathers and sons who trusted me to bring them home alive."
"Roman, please?—"
"Did they pay you well, Sean? Was it worth the blood on your hands?"
"I didn’t?—"
"Did they promise you territory? Power? A seat at their table once I was dead?"
"Roman, listen to me?—"
I pulled the Glock from my shoulder holster, the weight of it familiar and comforting in my grip. Sean’s eyes widened, but he didn’t beg. Didn’t grovel. Whatever else he was, he wasn’t a coward.
"Last chance," I said, pressing the barrel against his forehead. "The truth."
"I am telling you the truth." His voice was steady now, resigned. "I never betrayed you. I never betrayed this family. And if you pull that trigger, you’re going to realize too late that you killed the wrong man."
For a moment—just a moment—doubt flickered in my chest. Sean had been loyal for over a decade. Had taken bullets, had stood between me and death without hesitation. But loyalty could be bought, and everyone had a price.
The gun felt heavier in my hand as I thought about Cassie lying in that hospital bed, her face pale with exhaustion and secrets. About the child growing inside her—my child—who would inherit a world where trust was poison and love was weakness.
I thought about my father’s voice, echoing across the years:"Betrayal is a disease, son. Cut it out before it spreads, or it’ll rot everything you’ve built from the inside."
The explosion of the gunshot was deafening in the concrete room.
Sean’s body slumped forward, held upright only by the ropes binding him to the chair. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and spreading, reflecting the harsh light like a mirror made of violence.
Silence followed. Complete, absolute silence that seemed to press against my eardrums like a physical weight.
I stood there for long seconds, the gun still warm in my hand, watching the life drain out of a man who’d once taken a bullet meant for me. The smell of gunpowder and copper filled the air, familiar as my cologne.
"You did the right thing."
Declan’s voice cut through the silence like a blade. I turned to find him watching the spreading pool of blood with something that looked almost like satisfaction. Not grief for a fallen comrade, not regret for a life lost—satisfaction.
The observation lodged in my brain like a splinter, sharp and uncomfortable. But I pushed it down, buried it beneath layers of justification and necessity. Sean had been the mole. The evidence was clear. Justice had been served.
