Page 198 of Fractured Devotion
It’s about removal.
I finish the cigarette, crushing it under my boot.
Then I move, dragging the hood of my jacket over my head to shield my face. The fabric casts my features in shadow, just another phantom slipping through the dark.
Every step is measured and precise. I slip through back halls, bypassing cameras I designed myself, soundless as falling ash. The city hums below, blind to what’s creeping toward it.
Dunlay’s guards are amateurs. Merely paid hands with soft eyes and slower reflexes.
The first one doesn’t even see me coming.
I slit his throat clean, catching his body as it crumples. No sound. Just the wet gurgle of failure.
Two more down in seconds, their deaths quick and forgettable.
The elevator ride feels almost mundane.
When the doors slide open, I step into luxury—glass walls, marble floors, a skyline bleeding gold and crimson.
Dunlay stands at the window, sipping from a crystal tumbler, oblivious.
“You missed the fireworks,” I say, my voice calm.
He spins, his face draining pale. “You—you can’t be here.”
I smile. “But I am.”
Dunlay stumbles back, his hand scrambling toward the edge of his desk, his fingers fumbling blindly for the silent alarm.
I watch him press it.
Nothing happens.
I made sure of it.
“They never learn,” I say, each step I take measured and calm, the blade glinting under the low light.
He presses back against his desk, his face draining of color, his breath sharp and ragged.
“What do you want? Money? Immunity? I can get you anything,” he stammers, his voice cracking under the weight of panic.
“You can bleed,” I answer, no louder than a whisper.
My knife moves faster than his eyes can follow.
A precise, shallow slice across his cheek, just enough to bloom crimson.
He shrieks, clutching his face as blood trickles between his fingers.
“I didn’t want this! It wasn’t me! It was Rourke and the others. I was forced into it!” he babbles, his body trembling.
“You signed every approval. You watched the reports. You didn’t flinch,” I remind him, my voice flat and surgical.
I seize his collar, dragging him down into the leather chair behind his desk. My knee drives into his chest, pinning him there with brutal force.
“You smiled while they screamed,” I continue, leaning in close, my breath ghosting over his ear.
His face twists, tears streaking down as his hands paw weakly at my arms.
