PROBLEM CHILD

PROBLEM CHILD


Silvio's POV

There was smoke and sweat and the acrid taste of blood in the air, the metallic sting of it on my tongue. My body ached as if it had been scorched, my shoulder screaming in pain from the fresh bullet wound. Every breath hurt, every muscle complained, and still I couldn't look away. Not from the devastation before me.

Marcello had stepped forward, gun raised and pointed directly at his father’s chest. Wellington Morgan didn’t flinch. His face was hardened with fury, and yet there was something else lurking behind his eyes—something broken, something desperate.

“Marcello,” Wellington barked, his voice cutting through the roar of gunfire outside like a whip, “stop this nonsense. You’ve always been a difficult child, but this is beyond insolence.”

Marcello did not lower his gun. If anything, he tightened his fingers around it. His jaw clenched as his eyes locked on his father. Same eyes, same fire. The similarity was complete, but while Wellington sported his cruelty with heritage, Marcello sported his with precision.

No, Marcello snarled, low and lethal. "You listen to me, old man. You've had your way for too long. You've constructed this empire on blood and terror, but it's bleeding out. You've made us weak."

Wellington jeered, stepping forward even as the gun was pointed at him. "You have no idea what it takes to maintain power, boy.".

Oh, but I do," Marcello snarled. "Look around! Your reputation is in shambles. We're drowning in debt, stabbed in the back by friends, hunted by enemies. You actually expected bedding this scum on the floor to save us?" He gestured at Nicholas, who was half-alive, moaning, bleeding out at my feet.

I barely stood. My legs trembled beneath my own weight. The throb of pain in my shoulder timed itself with the rhythm of gunfire in the distance. But I leaned against the wall, watching, listening. I had to remain there.

Wellington's face reddened. "You don't lecture me on survival. You're a selfish brat with no sense of responsibility!"

Marcello took a step forward, pressing the barrel of the gun against Wellington’s chest. “And you’re a tyrant with no sense of vision.”

For a moment, time stood still.

Then, a single shot echoed in the warehouse.

Wellington’s body jerked back as blood bloomed across his chest. His eyes widened, a flicker of betrayal flashing across his face before he crumpled to the ground, unmoving.

Marcello panted, lowering the gun, his hands trembling. He uttered nothing.

I saw the shock spread throughout the room. Vincent and Morgan both tensed. Footmen once proud and loyal now looked between Marcello and Wellington's corpse with horror, uncertainty spreading into their marrow.

Marcello spoke to them, his voice coarse. "No more following the old paths. We begin fresh here. Clean. Strong. Without compromise."

And then the bullets fell.

The warehouse was busted from the docks in the south by Antonio's men. The whole island was on fire now—explosions in the distance, gunfire sounding like a rolling thunderstorm. The war had crested.

I lurched forward, vision blurring. My shoulder protested with pain as I clung to the wall. I spotted Martina, out cold and barely breathing, her body still lying on the ground. Blood coalesced around her.

I had to get to her.

But Nicholas wasn't done, fuck he had a bullet proof vest although severed he was still alive.

He groaned, dragging himself up onto his knees on one arm, the other dangling limply from an earlier shot. He was spitting blood, but that sly smile hadn't wavered. "You're still weak, Silvio."

I turned to face him, dizzied by blood loss. "Shut up," I growled.

"Did you think you were going to save them?" He hacked a laugh. "You let Rosetta down, let Sofia down, and Martina now." He looked at her, bleeding and broken. "You let her down as well."

Rage flowed through my veins, though my body longed to fall. I took a step toward him, but my legs gave way. Nicholas laughed once more, mad.

I spun with the sound of a foot behind me and witnessed one of Nicholas' guards raising his gun. Antonio took him down to the ground, jamming a secret knife into his ribcage.

"You alright?" Antonio growled, hoisting me up onto my feet.

I could barely get a nod. "Martina."

Antonio glared at her, his face hardening. "We need to take her out of here. You as well."

More shots were heard as Antonio's men advanced in the warehouse. Morgan had come back with them, covering and bellowing commands. Vincent was lying still, already dead, a single clean shot through the heart. I couldn't even begin to think about it yet.

Marcello lay next to his father's body, stiff, staring at the corpse with something unreadable in his eyes. I did not know what he was experiencing, whether he felt relief or grief or both. But there was no turning back.

A scream ruptured the stillness.

Martina.

She had woken.

She tried to sit up, but the agony was overwhelming.
Her lips were swollen, her eyes slit, and yet she was grabbing for me.