142. FELIX YEATS (POV)

142. FELIX YEATS (POV)
The iron is still in my hand. Heavy. Alive. The hot bar pulses between my fingers, like it had absorbed part of what just happened. The spilled blood no longer gushes — it now slides in slow trails down to my wrist, warm, thick, almost sticky. It clings to the skin like guilt that has been poorly washed away. The metallic scent mixes with sweat, but it’s the blood that dominates — bittersweet, raw, nauseating. And familiar.
Vicent trembles. His knees faltering, chest heaving like a broken dog. His mouth is slightly open, searching for air and finding nothing but his saliva and pain. The light in his eyes has been gone for a while. All that’s left is a diffuse emptiness… and the poison. The smile he still tries to keep on his lips is a shadow of what it was — cracked, unbalanced, crooked. The corner of his mouth throbs, swollen, bruised. But he persists. Like a last thread of mockery caught between his dirty teeth could be enough to save his soul.
The tip of the iron drops, touches the floor with a dry sound. Almost symbolic. And there, between the impact of metal and the silence that follows, I feel the vibration of my pulse echoing through my wrist — rhythmic, raw, far too alive.
It’s not anger, nor the adrenaline running through my veins.
It’s something denser. Like a dark well that’s opened in my chest and now bleeds memory. A thick, ancestral fatigue that weighs down the bones. The kind of exhaustion only those who’ve forgiven the wrong people too many times can understand—a deep weariness of being mistaken for someone merciful.
And then, the phone vibrates in my pocket.
A short, sharp vibration, like a needle piercing numb flesh.
I slowly pull the device from my pocket. I look at the screen.
Tony. I answer immediately, my hand stained with blood.
“Talk,” I say, curt.
His voice comes through heavy. Tense. Low, as if weighing every word.
“Sir… It’s Miss Nash.”
My heart lands with a dull thud in my chest. I feel the shift. It’s subtle — a breath caught mid-inhale, a sudden tightening of the jaw, the weight at the base of my neck.
“What is it?” I step away from Vincent, focusing my attention on the phone.
“She fainted. In the hallway. Left the room looking for you… But didn’t finish the sentence. Collapsed before I could catch her. I carried her back. She’s still breathing… but she won’t wake up. They’re trying to stabilize her.”
I stay silent for three seconds.
Three seconds in which the entire world once again drifts too far from what matters.
I take a deep breath. Just once.
I put the phone away without a word. Tony must have moved quickly enough to call the doctor I’d recommended some time ago, the one working alongside the nurse who saved Isabelle’s life at that hospital.
I turn back to Vicent. He’s still looking at me, the smile fading, becoming crooked, broken, almost insane—the look of someone clinging to the last thread of hope and self-control.
I crouch down, slowly, until I’m at eye level with him. And with a slight motion of my chin, I give the signal for them to lift their head.
“Phill.” I call, without needing to say it more than once — he steps closer.
Ready for what I’m about to order.
“Take care of him slowly, until he stops breathing. I want it so slow that blood comes out through the airway.”
Phill nods with his eyes, then kneels beside Vicent.
I rise slowly, turning away before I even hear the first scream. I already like the way this new bodyguard works — direct, methodical, smart, doesn’t hesitate when I give an order. The best Tony’s ever brought to my side.
But the sound follows me, clings to my heels. With every step, it echoes — and even so, all that moves me now is her.
Vicent’s blood is still on my hands, as well as on a few spots of my clothes. Someone once asked if I ever feel bad about all the blood I’ve spilled. And my answer is always the same: if he pointed a gun at me, that means he signed his death sentence.
Tony’s words won’t leave my mind. They stay trapped there, between one breath and the next, always returning in the same tone, the same rhythm. Like they’re etched into every part of me.
I stop, grabbing the damp cloth my driver hands me, just enough to wipe the dried blood from my hands.
“I want everyone to know what happened here and why it happened. That way, they’ll think twice before crossing me or betraying me,” I say, taking off my suit jacket and dress shirt, replacing them with something cleaner.
I take a deep breath.
“Car’s ready,” he informs me, opening the door for me to get in.
The car is parked on the side of the warehouse, its engine running, with the headlights off. The day feels heavy, the air stifling, as if the city itself knows something has gone far too wrong. I slide into the back seat without saying a word. The driver closes the door with a nod.
“Drive like someone’s life depends on it,” I mutter.
He nods. Doesn’t look at me. That’s the right move.
The car glides through the sleeping city, but my mind finds no rest. I should be calm. Should be bulletproof. But her name keeps repeating in my head with a weight no weapon can fix. Isabelle.
I left her protected, locked in, and surrounded by my people. And still… she’s not okay. I need to know what happened — what the hell that worm injected into her this time?
In the window’s reflection, my face shows nothing. But inside, the poison Vincent tried to plant throbs. The doubt. The failure. Letting the war get too close to her. It disgusts me. It burns.
“She went out looking for me.”
A simple sentence. But it hits harder than any bullet.
After a few minutes — which pass quickly thanks to the driver’s speed — the building appears at the end of the street. We proceed directly to the parking level, which leads directly to the penthouse apartment. Two of my men are already at the entrance. Tony waits at the door, back straight, hands behind him. His gaze is more tense than usual.
Tony steps closer.
“She’s still unconscious, boss. The doctor and the nurse are running tests on her. So far, it looks like they injected her with some heavy drug,” Tony says, his expression worried.
I walk right past him, through the door, heading straight to the room where I left Isabelle.
Every step toward her is a battle formation.
She collapsed because of me.
And now I need to see her alive. With my eyes. With my hands.
The hallway is too quiet. The dark floor absorbs my footsteps, the thick walls, and the architecture designed to keep secrets between rooms. Each step carries the weight of everything left behind: the blood, the torture, Vincent’s last words, the bitter taste of having won… but not the right way.
The door is slightly ajar.
I push it open, slowly.