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For her, I'll burn his fucking world to the ground.
I crouch in the shadows outside of Alessepo's house, the familiar weight of the gun cold in my hand. It's pitch-black out, the moon hiding behind a thick blanket of clouds. I take it as a sign—even the heavens are aligning to help ensure this motherfucker pays tonight.
I move silently, every step calculated, every breath measured. Finding an unlocked window takes only moments. Alessepo's too fucking sure of himself, confident of his safety in his own little kingdom. It'll be his downfall.
I don't make a sound as I slip through it into an office, pulling the window closed behind me. My boots make no sound as I slip down the hallway, a ghost haunting the threshold between justice and vengeance.
I don't bother looking around. There's nothing here that interests me except the motherfucker I came to handle. The stairs are silent under my feet, the only sound the pounding of my heart and the ticking of a clock somewhere below.
The door to his room is open, a sliver of moonlight beckoning me forward. I pause on the threshold, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breath. Every few seconds, he grunts through a snore. Even from across the room, I smell the alcohol on him.
My fingers tighten around the grip of my gun as I battle back rage. It would be easy, so fucking easy, to end his life with a single squeeze of the trigger right here and now. To watch the life bleed from him.
I step into the room, keeping to the shadows. For a moment, I simply watch him, the twisted look of peace on his face fueling my rage. How dare he sleep peacefully when he's turned her world into a living hell?
The prick didn't even try to show up at the hospital today. His daughter could have died because of him, and he couldn't even be bothered to act like he cared. He was too fucking drunk to notice.
I inch closer at the reminder. I'm a predator on the precipice, caught between the savage sweetness of revenge and the knowledge that it's not just my soul on the line—it's hers, too.
I press my gun to his temple, my boot connecting with the frame of his bed in a sharp kick meant to jar him awake.
"Wake the fuck up, Alessepo."
His body jolts, and his eyes snap open, bloodshot but clear. Good. He's sober now. He doesn't scream or plead for mercy. As he processes the situation, resignation sweeps through his gaze. He's stared death in the face before, perhaps not this closely, but close enough to know there's no begging your way out of it when your number's up.
He should know. He's been on this side of the trigger.
"Who—?"
I silence him by pressing the gun even harder against his temple. "The motherfucker who took your daughter from you."
"The party," he says, his voice gravelly from sleep.
"You lost her long before the party. She knows what you are and the things you've done."
His gaze flicks across my face, assessing, trying to determine what I know or if I'm fishing. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm a cop."
My finger twitches with the effort it takes not to squeeze the trigger. "And you've been dirty your entire fucking career," I growl, the past clawing its way up my throat like bile. "Remember Andres and Letty Passero?"
A brief flicker in his eyes is his only response, gone as quickly as it appeared.
"I was there the night you killed them. Twenty-five fucking years ago. Don't act like you've forgotten their blood on your hands."
He blinks, slow and deliberate, that practiced, cool facade sliding over his features like a mask. Cops wear it so goddamn well. "I don't know what you're talking about," he lies, so smoothly it almost sounds like truth.
"That's fine, Alessepo. I don't need your admission. I was there. I saw it. I've lived with it haunting me every fucking day since." I smirk, an unholy, savage smirk. "Now, it's going to haunt you."
Uncertainty filters through his expression, the first hint that he's not as calm and collected as he'd like to appear. There are cracks in his armor. Miles Alessepo is starting to unravel.
Good. I hope every thread slices deep.
"I wanted to kill you, but your daughter doesn't need to live with that on her conscience. And after everything you've done, death is too easy for you," I say. I'm jury and executioner, and I'm handing down my sentence. "You took something from me. Now, I'm taking everything from you. Your daughter is already mine, and brick by fucking brick, I'm going to dismantle your little empire until you're left with nothing. By the time you fall, everyone in this city will know exactly who and what you are."
I remove the gun from his temple, the gesture deliberate. This isn't mercy. I'm not letting him off. There is no hope of redemption for him, and I'm not giving him an opportunity to seek it. He's going to plummet from his pedestal, and I'm going to make it happen.
I just declared war with the entire fucking police department.
It is what it is.
