Chapter 7 - Blood on the Marble
The storm broke over New York.
It wasn't just rain; it was a deluge of violence.
For three days, the news reported "gang violence" and "unexplained fires" across Brooklyn. But in the underworld, everyone knew it was the wrath of the Devil.
Vincent systematically dismantled the Romano empire. He took their businesses, burned their warehouses, and eliminated their capos.
I stayed at the estate, guarded by a small army.
But I couldn't just sit and wait.
On the fourth night, the rain was lashing against the windows of the study. I was reviewing the ledgers, trying to keep my mind occupied, when the heavy oak doors swung open.
Vincent stood there. His suit was ruined, soaked with rain and stained with dark, unmistakable spots of blood.
His eyes were hollow, exhausted, but burning with a fierce, victorious fire.
"It's done," he rasped, walking into the room.
I stood up, my heart leaping into my throat.
"The Romanos?"
"Gone," he said flatly. "Their boss surrendered. He is on a plane to Italy, never to return. His territory is ours."
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"And... Mark?"
Vincent stopped. He looked at me, a complex emotion swirling in his dark eyes.
"He is in the basement."
The words hit me like a physical blow.
"What?"
"I brought him here," Vincent said softly. "He is tied to a chair. He is broken, Lena. He has nothing left. But I didn't kill him."
He walked over to me, taking my hands in his.
"Why?" I asked, my voice trembling.
"Because he is not my demon to slay," Vincent said. "He is yours."
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, black revolver. He placed it in my palm.
"You have spent five years living in the shadow of this man's terror," Vincent said, his eyes locking onto mine. "You can walk down those stairs and end him. Or you can walk down those stairs, look him in the eye, and let him live with the knowledge that you are a god compared to him. The choice is yours. Whatever you decide, I will stand by you."
I stared at the gun in my hand.
It felt heavy. It felt like justice.
I turned and walked out of the study, heading toward the basement stairs.
Vincent followed silently behind me.
When I opened the steel door to the interrogation room, the smell of damp concrete and blood hit me.
Mark was tied to a metal chair in the center of the room.
He looked pathetic. His clothes were torn, his face bruised, and he was shivering.
When he heard the door open, he looked up.
His eyes widened in sheer panic when he saw me.
"Lena..." he croaked, his voice pathetic and weak. "Lena, please..."
I walked slowly toward him, my heels clicking against the concrete floor.
I stopped two feet away.
"You used to tell me I was nothing," I said, my voice eerily calm. "You used to tell me that without you, I would die in the gutter."
"I was wrong!" he sobbed, pulling at his restraints. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! Tell him to let me go, please!"
I raised the gun.
Mark screamed, squeezing his eyes shut, bracing for the bullet.
I looked at the man who had broken my arm. The man who had broken my spirit.
I looked at his cowering, pathetic form.
And suddenly, I felt nothing.
No anger. No fear. No hatred.
Just pity.
He wasn't a monster. He was just a sad, weak man who needed to hurt a woman to feel strong.
I lowered the gun.
I turned to Vincent, who was watching me with intense pride.
"I don't want his blood on my hands," I said, handing the gun back to Vincent. "He's not worth the bullet."
Vincent took the gun, a small smile playing on his lips.
"What do you want me to do with him?"
I looked back at Mark.
"Put him on the street. With nothing. Let him live exactly the way he is—a coward who knows that the woman he broke is the only reason he is still breathing."
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Mark sobbed uncontrollably, but I didn't stay to listen.
I turned my back on my past, and walked up the stairs, back into the light.
