Chapter 7 - BLOOD ON THE WHITE TILES
The tension in the study was so thick it felt like trying to breathe underwater. The air smelled of cordite, blood, and the heavy, damp fog rolling in through the shattered windows. Victor Romano stood completely still, the barrel of Lucas Moretti’s customized 1911 pressed so hard against his skull it was leaving a deep, circular indentation in his flesh.
For the first time in his ruthless, violent life, Victor looked genuinely terrified. The arrogance had melted away, replaced by the primal, trembling fear of a man standing on the edge of the abyss.
“Lucas... wait,” Victor stammered, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. Sweat beaded on his forehead, mixing with the plaster dust that had rained from the ceiling. “Think about this. We can make a deal. I have offshore accounts. I have the commercial deeds in Brooklyn. Millions, Lucas. I can sign it all over to you right now. Just let me walk away. I’ll leave the country. You’ll never see me again.”
Lucas stared at him, his face an impenetrable mask of granite. He didn't see the man begging for his life. He saw the roaring flames consuming the west wing of his home. He heard Isabella’s laugh turning to ash. He saw Daniel’s small, unmoving body being carried out in a black bag.
“You think my family’s lives have a price tag, Victor?” Lucas whispered, his voice vibrating with a dark, terrifying frequency.
“I did it for the family!” Victor cried out desperately, his eyes darting toward Carlo and Silas, seeking an ounce of sympathy that did not exist. “You were going to destroy the syndicate! The old captains... they wanted you gone too! I was just the one who had the guts to do it!”
“You lie like a dog,” Carlo spat, taking a step forward and driving the heavy wooden stock of his shotgun directly into the back of Victor’s knees.
Victor cried out in pain, his legs buckling. He crashed onto the hardwood floor, falling to his knees directly in front of Lucas.
Lucas looked down at the man who had been his right hand. He slowly lowered the pistol from Victor’s forehead.
Victor gasped, a sudden, desperate surge of hope flashing in his eyes. He thought Lucas’s legendary mercy had returned. He thought the boss was too soft to pull the trigger while looking him in the eye.
“You’re doing the right thing, Boss,” Victor panted, trying to push himself back up. “No more blood. We can—”
Lucas didn't shoot him. He swung his right arm in a vicious, blindingly fast arc, driving the heavy steel frame of the pistol directly into Victor’s jaw. The sickening crunch of bone echoed through the study. Victor screamed, collapsing onto the Persian rug, spitting blood and teeth.
Lucas tossed his pistol onto the desk. He didn't want the cold detachment of a bullet. He wanted Victor to feel the sheer, crushing weight of the grief he had carried for three years.
Lucas reached down, grabbed Victor by the lapels of his ruined suit, and hauled him entirely off the floor with terrifying, brute strength. He slammed Victor against the heavy mahogany bookshelves, the impact rattling the antique volumes and shattering a framed photograph on a nearby shelf.
“You took the only thing in this world that made me human!” Lucas roared, the three years of suppressed agony finally erupting like a volcano. He drove his fist into Victor’s stomach, dropping the traitor to his knees again, gasping for air.
Victor wheezed, clutching his ribs, blood pouring from his shattered jaw onto the pristine white tiles of the study border. He looked up at Lucas, finally understanding that there was no mercy left in this room. The man standing over him was the monster Victor had always wanted Lucas to be.
“Go ahead, then,” Victor coughed, spitting a glob of dark blood onto Lucas’s polished shoes. His fear morphed into a bitter, venomous spite. “Kill me. It won’t bring her back, Lucas. She burned. They both burned. And they died screaming your name, wondering why you weren't there to save them.”
The room went completely silent. Carlo and Silas tightened their grips on their weapons, fully expecting Lucas to snap and beat the man to death with his bare hands.
Lucas stared at Victor, his chest heaving, his fists clenched so tight his fingernails dug into his palms, drawing blood. The rage was an intoxicating poison in his veins, begging him to tear Victor apart piece by piece. He wanted to break every bone in the traitor’s body. He wanted to hear him beg.
But suddenly, the weight of a small, plastic object in his left pocket anchored him.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the tiny, pink, sticker-covered inhaler. He looked at it. He remembered Lily’s small hands holding it out to him. To make you feel better, she had said. He remembered her drawing of the big, yellow sun.
If he beat Victor to death like an animal on this floor, he would become exactly what Victor wanted him to be. He would become the monster his father was. And he could not go back to that little girl with his soul completely blackened by an executioner's brutality.
Lucas took a deep, slow breath. His heart rate steadied. The fiery, chaotic rage crystallized into cold, absolute justice.
Lucas stepped back, straightening his jacket. He looked at Silas.
“Silas,” Lucas said, his voice completely calm, devoid of all emotion. “Gather the financial records. Empty Victor’s offshore accounts. Transfer every cent to the family’s legitimate holding companies.”
“And what about him?” Silas asked, gesturing to the broken, bloody man on the floor.
“He loves the docks so much,” Lucas said coldly, looking down at Victor. “Take him there. The deep water trench past pier four. I don’t want to see his face, and I don't want his name ever spoken in this city again.”
Victor’s eyes widened in horror. “No! Lucas! Shoot me! Shoot me here!”
Carlo stepped forward, grabbing Victor by the collar and dragging him ruthlessly across the floor. “You don't get to choose how you go out, rat. You lost that privilege three years ago.”
Victor screamed, kicking and struggling, but the old guard surrounded him, hauling him out of the study and down the hallway, his desperate cries echoing through the mansion until the heavy front doors slammed shut, cutting off his voice forever.
Lucas stood alone in his study. The silence rushed back in, but it no longer felt heavy or suffocating. It felt clean. The tumor had been excised.
He walked over to the desk, ignoring the blood on the floor. He picked up his phone and dialed the number for the secure penthouse. It rang twice before a sleepy, anxious voice answered.
May you like
“Hello?” Maria whispered.
“Maria, it’s Lucas,” he said gently, looking out the shattered window as the first pale light of dawn began to break over the Long Island Sound. “It’s over. You and Lily are safe. Pack your things. I’m coming to take you home.”
