Chapter 13: Blood and Vengeance
The grand ballroom reeked of blood, cordite, and the sharp tang of shattered marble as Dayne finally stepped toward Robert, who was bound in a kneeling position amidst the wreckage of his own family estate. Dayne's emerald gaze, cold and assessing, flicked to his father Vito, who gave a single, sharp nod toward the four surviving guards huddled against the far wall; without hesitation, the synchronized cracks of pistols echoed, and the bodies crumpled, leaving only Robert breathing heavily in the silence. "We owed that sight to Zariah," Dayne said, his voice a low, conversational rasp as he crouched, bringing his blood-smeared face level with Robert's terrified one. "So where should we begin?"
"The beginning," Dayne said, his voice softening into something far more dangerous than a shout. "The moment you looked at her and decided you could pervert something that fucking innocent by forcing a ring on her finger." He stood, pacing a slow, predatory circle around Robert's kneeling form, his polished boots creaking on the dusty parquet. "You stole something that never belonged to you in the first fucking place," he continued, stopping to lean down, his breath hot on Robert's ear. "She was always mine to love, to cherish, to fuck, and to marry, but fate... fate is a crazy thing."
“You blackmailed her with false photos and empty threats against her family,” Dayne whispered, his knuckles whitening around the handle of a knife he’d drawn from his boot. He pressed the cold, flat side of the blade against Robert’s trembling cheek. “You kept my child from me for months, you sad, hollow fuck.” Robert tried to speak, a garbled plea escaping his lips, but Dayne’s fist cracked against his jaw with a wet, final sound, silencing him. “If there was a fate worse than death, I would wish you there,” Dayne hissed, leaning in so close their foreheads almost touched. “What you didn't bet on was the begotten Moretti son, the turn-CEO golden boy, being the scariest one of all; I may have denounced my name, but never my blood.”
Robert choked on a laugh, a dry, rattling sound. "I still win even in the end, Moretti," he spat, a fleck of blood dotting his lip. "That bitch carries my seed—Ellis blood." He drew a wet, ragged breath and hurled a glob of spit onto Dayne’s cheek.
Dayne wiped it away slowly, and smiled, but it held no humor, only the promise of a deep, annihilating silence. "And if so, my child will know nothing of you," he said, his voice terrifyingly soft. "Your bloodline will die with you tonight, as I’ll make sure the child can’t even trace his DNA back to a scum of the earth such as yourself." The final, cold certainty in Dayne’s response wiped the look of victory off of Robert’s face, replacing it with a dawning, absolute horror.
Vito stood near, and shook his head and hand in a gesture as to say “not yet” when his eldest son Angelo, who also stood nearby, took the safety off of his Ruger, and tried to hand it to Dayne.
Dayne reached for the skull etched hunting knife sheathed on his side, his stare locked on Robert. “A gun is too clean for this, and I want to watch to the very end. Never again will Zariah have to endure the plague that was Robert Ellis,” he said, his voice low. The word “was” made Robert’s eyes grow bigger. He reached down and wrapped a hand in Robert’s hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat.
Robert thrashed, a panicked gurgle escaping him as Angelo stepped closer, a silent bulwark ready to intervene if needed, thinking dryly that forgetting to pay the caterer last week was a far smarter move than whatever this doomed fucker had done to piss Dayne off. The world telescoped to the blade’s honed edge, a sliver of moonlight in the ruined hall, as Vito returned, snapping his phone shut with a grim finality and speaking into the electric silence: "Son, she's asking for you, and if this even needs to be a debate or vote, as a Doctor -- Doctor C's got the safe house sterile for surgical time." Dayne’s gaze never left Robert’s, the predator momentarily calculating the logistics of delayed vengeance against the raw, screaming need to be at Zariah’s side, before he decided, leaning in to return the glob of spit with cold precision directly into Robert’s left eye. "Che tu marcisca sotto l'inferno," Dayne whispered, the ancient curse a final benediction, and the blade, filigreed with waterfowl, followed in a single, brutal arc that severed tendon and windpipe, carving deep into the spine with a wet, crunching finality. He watched, unblinking, as the light fled Robert’s eyes, the body jerking in a last, pathetic spasm before slumping forward, the ruined throat gaping toward the dusty floor—a memory Dayne seared into his soul to ensure this ghost could never haunt her again.
He watched, unblinking, as the light fled Robert’s eyes, the body jerking in a last, pathetic spasm before slumping forward, the ruined throat gaping toward the dusty floor—a memory Dayne seared into his soul to ensure this ghost could never haunt her again. Exhaling a sharp breath he hadn't realized he was holding, Dayne straightened, the adrenaline leaching away to leave a hollow, icy calm as he wiped the blade clean on Robert’s own sleeve before sheathing it. Angelo stepped forward, his own shirt already half-unbuttoned, and stripped it off to reveal a tattooed torso slick with sweat; “I didn’t think your girl wants to see you in all that blood,” he said, offering the clean cotton. Dayne half-smirked and accepted the T-shirt, pulling it over his head to cover the gore, its fabric carrying the faint scent of gun oil and his brother’s cologne—a mundane armor for the return to her. Vito clasped his shoulder, fingers digging in with a silent understanding, and said, “We got it from here,” before Dayne, alongside his father’s best friend—his Uncle Nick—volunteered to drive him back to where Zariah waited.