Love and Blood

Chapter 12

In the dead of night, the house is eerily silent. Shadows stretch long across the dimly lit hallways, and the air feels heavy, like it's pressing down on me with every step I take. My bare feet make no sound on the cold floor as I wander aimlessly, my body too weak to care about where I'm going.

Then I hear a soft, muffled sound that stops me in my tracks. Crying.

I freeze outside Vincent's office door, my hand hovering just shy of the wood. The crying is low filled with a rawness I hadn't expected. It's the kind of sound that pulls at something deep in your chest, no matter how much you want to ignore it.

And then another voice, Anthony's. "You couldn't have known," Anthony says softly, his words carrying through the crack in the door. "You did what you thought was best, Vincent."

"I told them to stay," Vincent chokes out between sobs. "I told them to stay, and they left, Anthony. Roman's dead because of me."

The words send a jolt through my chest. I press myself closer to the door, my breath catching in my throat.

"It's not your fault," Anthony replies, his voice firmer now. "You didn't pull the trigger. Don't put that on yourself."

Vincent's sobs grow quieter, but they're still there, and the sound is almost too much to bear.

"I just... I didn't want this," Vincent murmurs, his voice breaking again. "I didn't want to lose him. We just fucking found them."

The weight of his words sinks into me, and for a moment, I forget how much I hate him. I forget the rage and the blame I've been carrying. All I can hear is a man grieving, broken by the same loss that has shattered my world.

Anthony's voice drops lower, almost too soft to hear. "You need to pull yourself together. She needs you. She's falling apart in there, Vincent. If you don't—"

"I don't know how to fix this," Vincent interrupts, his voice raw. "I don't know how to make this right."

There's a long silence, and then the sound of Anthony sighing.

"You can't bring him back, Vincent. But you can try to help her. Start there."

I take a shaky step back from the door, my head spinning.

My hands clench into fists at my sides, my nails digging into my palms. How dare he cry? How dare he?

He doesn't get to grieve my brother. He doesn't have that right.

Anger surges through me, hot and suffocating. He and his men, they took Roman. They took him and they killed him without a second thought. They're the reason he's gone, the reason his blood soaked into the dirt while I held him in my arms.

Vincent doesn't get to sit in his office and cry about it now. He doesn't get to act like he cares, like he's the victim in all of this.

The image of Roman's lifeless body flashes in my mind, and my chest tightens so much I can't breathe. My knees threaten to buckle, but I force myself to stay upright, shaking with rage.

He's a murderer. That's all Vincent is. A cold-blooded murderer trying to wash his hands clean with crocodile tears.

I want to scream, to tear that door off its hinges and make him see the weight of what he's done. I want to yell at him until my throat is raw, until there's nothing left but the truth: He killed my brother.

But I don't.

Instead, I take another step back, swallowing the scream rising in my throat. My chest heaves, and I press my hand against it, trying to steady the storm inside me.