141. FELIX YEATS (POV)

141. FELIX YEATS (POV)
The smoke hangs in the air like a thick veil, soaked with gunpowder, sweat, and fresh blood. The gunfire has stopped, but the sound still echoes in my ears, persistent like a buzzing. I move forward between the bodies, one step at a time, no rush. The warehouse floor is filthy, uneven, stained with different shades of red—some dark, clotted hours ago; others still fresh, pulsing where they shouldn’t be.
My men circle along the edges, weapons lowered, alert. There’s a tense silence now—the kind that comes after a clean hunt. The kind that knows the predator is still hungry.
I approach the pillar where Simon tried to hide. And then I see him.
He’s lying on his side, hand still clutching the pistol like it could somehow save him from being taken. Blood is running down the side of his abdomen, near his stomach. His shirt is soaked. His eyes are open, wide, trying to understand, or pretending he still has a way out.
I tilt my head slightly. The wound is bad. He’s alive. Still. But not for long.
I smile. Brief, crooked, full of contempt.
“I told you there was nothing to worry about,” I murmur, my voice low, close. Cruel. “That one way or another... You were going to die.”
He tries to answer. His mouth opens, but all that comes out is a wet, choking sound. His chest struggles to rise. His gaze wavers. There’s no more fight left in him. Just that last miserable thread of pride.
I raise my arm. Aim calmly. I want him to see it.
“This is for Isabelle.”
The shot rings out—sharp. Clean.
The bullet hits dead center in his forehead. His body shudders once, then gives out. Heavy, undignified. Done.
I stayed there a moment. Nothing about him is worth more than the silence that follows.
Behind me, two of my men appear, dragging Vicent. He doesn’t scream. He’s hurt—a shot in the shoulder, maybe a broken leg—but he stays quiet. Dirty, hair matted with blood and sweat. Still trying to hold my gaze. A fool who hasn’t realized he’s already lost everything.
They throw him to the ground. The impact knocks a groan out of him, and his face twists in pain. I crouch down.
Slowly.
I kneel in front of him. I want our eyes to meet at the same level. I want him to feel that not even the floor can hide him.
"Hey, Vicent," I say, voice steady, close, like I’m chatting with an old friend. "Was it fun doing business with Shen behind my back?"
He hesitates. But his eyes give it away. A flicker of anger. Fear. And maybe—maybe a hint of regret.
I squeeze his knee hard. He grits his teeth.
"How many times did you pour me wine while stabbing me in the back?"
His head falls back for a second, then returns. He speaks with effort.
"He promised... the empire."
"And you thought he’d give you something that wasn’t even his," I murmur. "You made the wrong bet, Vicent. And when you bet wrong with me... You don’t just lose money."
I get closer. My face was right next to his. A whisper.
"You lose everything."
I pressed the gun right into the graze on his leg.
Vicent breathes through his mouth, holding back the scream. It’s an ugly sound—rough. Blood drips from the corner of his lips down to his chin and hits the floor steadily, like a leaky faucet. One of my men steps forward with a makeshift tourniquet, but I raise my hand.
"No. Let him bleed."
He backs off. Obeys.
I stand slowly. Walk over to one of the abandoned workbenches in the warehouse. That’s where I find what I need—toolboxes, wires, metal scraps, a pair of bolt cutters still crusted with rust. I grab it by the handle, test the weight. It'll do.
I walk back, the sound of metal hitting concrete echoing through the dead space. Vicent watches me. Now his eyes are shaking. The anger’s gone. The fear is thicker. And his silence says more than any begging ever could.
"You know what pisses me off about you, Vicent?" I say, kneeling again. "You could’ve been loyal. There was room for you. But you picked the wrong table. And now... now you're gonna show me just how much your body can carry the weight of your choices."
I grab his hand—the right one, the one he used to seal deals, to toast with me while lying through his teeth. His fingers are cold, stained with blood. He tries to pull away, but I don’t let him.
"It’s gonna hurt," I warn. "And the best part is—it won’t kill you. Just... leave a mark."
The first crack comes with the index finger. The bolt cutters press down until the bone splinters. He screams. It’s not a clean scream—it’s raw, desperate, the kind that comes from someone who never thought they’d end up here. His body writhes, tries to get away. But he doesn’t have the strength anymore.
"One more," I say, breathing steadily.
The second finger gives in. Blood splashes onto my sleeve. I make sure to keep my eyes on him. I want to see the break—see it.
"This is for trying to negotiate my death."
The third finger snaps. The flesh is soft now, easy. He cries, no shame left. His face is a raw portrait of pain and regret.
"This is for giving up where Isabelle and I were. When I trusted you. When you tried to turn my allies against me."
The fourth snap is drier. He groans low, his chin dropping to his chest. Blood runs freely, hot and sharp with the smell of iron.
"And this"—I grip the last finger tight, the cutters sinking in until the bone gives—"is for thinking I wouldn't find out."
I let go of his hand. It feels like dead weight, fingers ruined. He breathes like a wounded animal, chest jerking in spasms. I try wiping the blood off my palm, but it’s no use.
I lean in again, close to his face.
"I’m not done. But now... I want to hear you."
He tries to speak.
"Give me one reason," I whisper, low and right against his ear, "to leave you with more than one working lung."
Vicent breathes like a cornered animal. His chest rises and falls too fast, out of sync. His ruined hand twitches at a wrong, grotesque angle. But he’s still conscious—and that’s all I care about. I want him to be present.
I find a thin, rusted iron rod tossed in a corner of the warehouse. His fresh blood still clings, warm on my fingers. I crouch down again, press the metal against his collarbone. He screams—not loud, not begging, but just enough that I can hear the sound of flesh giving way.
"You gonna talk?"
He spits blood on the floor. Stays silent.
I drive the rod between his ribs. Precisely. Slowly. The pain sinks in deep, sharp, and designed to last. His body jolts in tight, stuttering spasms.
"Talk."
He lifts his head, slowly. His eyes are sunken, wet, but still alive.
"You think..."—his voice is broken, thick with blood—"...you’re feared, Felix. But deep down... you’re just a man... trying to hide your fear behind your name."
His smile is filthy. His gaze, rotten. He spits again. The red spit drips down onto my shoe.
"Maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s true. But the thing is, I’m not the one bleeding out with nothing left, losing to a man who was once an ally. And I have the pleasure of telling you, my dear friend... I still run things—far beyond what your little mind can even imagine."
I freeze.
All I can hear is the sound of my blood pounding in my ears.