𝗙𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗸𝗶𝗲

41 - Break, But Don't Beg.

"Every murder turns on a bright hot light, and a lot of people . . .have to walk out of the shadows."

- Albert Maltz

My uncle. Theodore fucking Pierce. The man I'd worshiped, the man who raised me like his own, the man I would've fucking killed for. And he was the one who had my father murdered.

No. No, no, no. That couldn't be true. He couldn't have fucking done this.

The ground didn't just crack beneath me—it fucking collapsed, dragging me straight into a pit of rage so black and bottomless I couldn't fucking breathe.

The truth didn't hit me. It fucking annihilated me.

Could my own blood do this? Could he betray his own brother? Could he betray me? Every goddamn thing I thought I knew twisted into something sick and rotten, curdling inside me like poison. I trusted him. I loved him. And that motherfucker—he—he—

I felt like I was choking on broken glass. I wanted to scream, to fucking burn something to the ground. Instead, I slammed my fist into the nearest wall. Once. Twice. Again. I kept going until my knuckles split open, blood smeared against the wall, but the pain was nothing compared to the firestorm inside me.

I dropped to my knees, panting like a caged animal, staring at the blood dripping from my hands. My hands, shaking with rage. My chest heaving. My vision blurred—fuck, was I crying? I snarled, wiping my face with the back of my hand, furious at the wetness.

Crying like some broken kid when I should've been tearing Theodore apart with my bare hands. But no. No, I couldn't let my shit spiral. I had to focus, had to get answers, had to be sure first. I needed the whole fucking story.

I forced myself up, shoved the fury down just enough to focus. My hands trembled, my breath ragged, but I made it to my car. I barely remembered the drive to Conor's estate. His men took one look at me and didn't fucking move. Smart. They weren't dumb enough to get in my way when I looked like I was ready to rip out someone's throat.

I stormed through the halls and slammed my fist against Conor's office door—no, fuck that, I kicked it open.

Conor barely flinched. Just looked up from behind his desk, sharp eyes narrowing. "Hector." His voice was steady, rough. Like he already knew why I was here.

"We need to fucking talk," I spat, shoving the door shut behind me so hard the walls shook. "About my father."

Conor sighed. A long, heavy exhale like he'd been waiting for this moment.