Little Game

Chapter 62

Dante was a puppet his mother made and played with. He was nothing but a piece in a game that could be thrown away once he was used. He knew that. He knew that more than anyone. Yet, he played his part. Like the good son he was.

He played and used his children just like how his mother used him. He thought that was how it was. How family was. He thought that he needed to earn his place for him to be considered as a member of the family. He grew up thinking he needed to prove himself.

And that's how he treated his sons. He treated them as though they needed to earn their place in the family, as though they needed to earn his respect.

There should have been nothing to earn. There should have been nothing to prove. He should have been a good father. He should have carved a path for himself.

He should have known that there was no such thing as family in his mother's eyes. Only disposable individuals. He wasn't a son.

He was just a toy.

And now he could see how his mother was burning everything he had worked so hard to earn. He worked so hard to build up a kingdom—a kingdom he worked so hard just for her.

In just a snap of his mother's fingers, his crown was taken away from him.

And all he loved and worked hard for just to get acknowledged was burned to the ground.

His ears were ringing as everything around him were running and taking bullets and dying. Death lingered in the air and hanged on everyone's shoulders like a promise.

He could faintly hear Isabella crying in the background. Her cries were hell's bells pounding in his head, sins he forgot scratched in the back of his head and all the things he'd done were tainting his soul black.

And he loved and hated it at the same time.

"Do something!" Isabella begged and cried out. Her voice was bleeding with so much grief that it ached his dark heart.

Weak, pitiful Isabella.

Death followed her and killed people she cared.

Weak, pitiful Isabella.

Her father's feet moved, as though possessed. One foot after the other until he could hear again the gunshots and not just the ringing in his ears. Somebody shot him but he didn't care— didn't even feel it. His body moved and killed whoever was on his path.

No matter how much he bled, he moved because weak, pitiful Isabella was telling him to do something so he was going to do something he should have done before.

He moved. One foot after the other and his people moved along with him. The tide was now turning against his own wife and mother.

Poor, pitiful Isabella with her poor and pitiful life.

Suddenly, Dante reached his mother and he'd come face to face with the woman who once had taken care of him and groomed him to be one of the most useful piece in the game.

"Dante!" Rafael wailed as he pointed his gun at the but Dmitri, with all his might, grabbed his leg and tried to lose his balance.

Rafael kicked him in the face, causing his nose to bleed but he held on stubbornly. "Go to hell!" Rafael sneered and pointed the gun directly at Dmitri.

The man looked at Dante for a moment pleadingly. He was a desperate man. Dmitri wanted things to end once and for all.

Dante looked back at his mother who was looking at Dante with a mocking smile. "You can't do it, Dante. I'm your mother." She said calmly, walking closer to Dante as though she was mocking him. "I raised you like this. I raised you to be the good boy you are today."

Tatiana chuckled darkly and moved towards Dante. Her moves were sensual and slow. "Give it up, love." She whispered softly.

Poor, pitiful Isabella's cries were ringing in Dante's head, telling him how much of a sinner he was.

"I want to." Dante's voice trembled because he missed his wife and this was his chance to be acknowledged by his mother.

But his children...

"But I can't."

Because he's done so much to sacrifice his own children. He was done letting his children clean up for him. He was done trying to earn his mother's respect and he was done chasing after his wife.

He was done.

So what does he do best? He kills.

Because he has already tainted his hands with the blood of the innocents so the least he could do is actually kill a sinner now.

So he pointed the gun first at his own wife.

She looked at him in shock before her sweet expression turned sour.

Ezri screamed in horror. "Mama!" He cried out as he tried to rush towards his mother but Romeo grabbed him by the collar before wrapping his other arm around his waist. Now, he was holding the twins as they cried for their parents.

"Mátala, Dante!" Romeo shouted as Ezri thrashed in his hold.

(Kill her, Dante!)

Tatiana smiled so sickly before moving forward and actually letting the nuzzle point directly at her forehead.

"Hazlo. Hazlo, Dante. Get it over with because you know I'll come back to hunt you." Tatiana laughed as she grabbed the gun.

(Do it. Do it, Dante.)

Dante was a puppet his mother made and played with. He was nothing but a piece in a game that could be thrown away once he was used. He knew that. He knew that more than anyone. Yet, he played his part. Like the good son he was.

And he'll keep playing like the good son he is.

"Take her away from me." Dante ordered, his hand moving to the side and the look on his wife's face was absolutely devious. Abuela as well.

The screams of Isabella as she watched the chaos rage on without no ending. It was devastating. It was disappointing.

Ezri's scream echoed as Isabella closed her mouth as Romeo ran out with them both. The pain she felt when she saw Tatiana caress his cheek with that gentleness in her eyes and the way he leaned forward against her touch, as though he was finally at peace. In love.

His sons tried to fight but they were held down. They were no longer hurt though. No longer suffering. Nothing. Because Dante chose a side.

Dante chose to abandon Isabella.

For good.

Isabella's eyes slowly drifted towards Dmitri and he was looking at her, content and relieved that she was being pulled away from this hell.

Isabella wished he would live. After so many heartbreaks. So many hardships, she wished he would live and be by her side.

Isabella wished he wasn't also a toy in somebody's game. A puppet as well.

But he's also a puppet, a little piece that is useful and can be thrown if his purpose is gone.

Because that's the little game that life plays.

That's the little game that abuela plays.

And she knew she won.