Snapping Point

4.

I watched as the color drained from the redhead's face in response to Morelli's words. Personally, I wasn't surprised; I hadn't expected anything less. No excuse would alter her inevitable fate, not since Morelli had caught her in the hall, not since he'd escorted her to the crypt. This meeting wasn't about reconciliation or forming alliances. It was about torture and death.

"I could've left, sir, once I realized I wasn't welcome, but the—"

"The security measures were implemented for individuals like you, Xenia," I interjected, feigning detachment. The excitement had long dissipated for me; I had to put on a facade. "To keep you out, or in — if you insist on being stubborn."

As I raised my gun, aiming at her helpless form crumpling to the ground in a plea for mercy, I felt an unfamiliar sensation prickle at my face. It wasn't a tear — hell no, it resembled the sting of one, but it wasn't. I paused, lowering my weapon to examine this strange emotion creeping into my hardened facade.

Morelli wasn't catching on, he couldn't—I wouldn't believe I was feeling merciful, much less the man that had thought me to be ruthless. Her big brown eyes tore through that ruthlessness.

I had been with women whose essence remained unforgettable, but none had ever rendered me so incapable of pulling the trigger. When Amato had suggested disposing of Carmen, a woman from my past, upon discovering her involvement in funneling information from our associate to the authorities, I had callously taken her to bed and ended her life with a gunshot to the temple as she climaxed. She had died mid-orgasm. My vices and I were inseparable. And the more I reminisced about them, the more resolute I became in embracing my true nature.

I wasn't inherently evil, yet being labeled as purely virtuous was equally intolerable. Somewhere in between suited me best, if one understood the motives behind my actions. Protecting my family came at any price, and I typically paid it without hesitation.

My duty loomed before me, yet an unsettling discordance plagued my instincts tonight.

Raising the firearm once more, I steeled myself and advanced towards her — though my focus remained on Morelli as he retrieved his suit from the rack. He wouldn't depart until I had disposed of the woman like a fallen domino.

A pang of anguish shot through my gut. It was that familiar swirl of anxiety, that faint flicker of humanity — a trait I couldn't recall possessing — whispering to me that I didn't need to extinguish the life of an innocent woman. She could have easily been one of my own sisters caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Somewhere out there, someone might spiral into madness knowing they had failed to shield her from this fate. Damn it, my hand trembled, throwing off my aim once more. I convinced myself that it was the alcohol clouding my vision, but deep down, I knew four shots weren't enough to impair me. This wasn't about liquor, tobacco, or patience; it was about mercy.

Despite the ruthless conditioning us criminals underwent to suppress our innate human emotions, we were still human. We could still weep, but chose not to. We could still love, yet battled against those sentiments. And perhaps, just maybe, we could still empathize with another's pain.

Morelli didn't perceive her as I did. He was one of those men who likely severed ties with his emotions long before hitting forty. Losing his three children in a plane crash could do that to a person. So no, I had no intention of sharing my perspective with him. I simply needed to adhere to the old ways.

That cunning aspect of my nature resurfaced to engage in the old game, even though my neck would be on the line if my Don caught wind of it.

"Step closer," I commanded Xenia, maintaining my aim like I had the intention of shooting her, and she obeyed instantly, standing before me in a heartbeat. "Turn around." She complied, trembling and silently shedding tears, her head bowed in supplication.