Omerta ||ʙᴏᴏᴋ 1||

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴇʟᴇᴠᴇɴ

They never tell you that killing someone gives you power.

Real, tangible power. Not just over them—their life, their death—but over something inside yourself. And that part? That part is worse than the blood, the crying, the pleading.

Because once you feel it, once you like it—there's no going back.You stop seeing people —you see obstacles. Liabilities. Threats. You stop thinking about their families or their stories or their damn humanity.

This man wasn't anyone. He was just a disposable pawn, but he knew something. And he wouldn't give it up. Not even with a knife pressed to his throat. Not even when I promised to keep him breathing.

But I still saw his humanity in his eyes

Fear.

Desperation.

Panic.

"Please... I have two kids," he choked out. "Don't kill me."

His voice cracked like glass, and it echoed in my head louder than the gun ever could. My heart beat so fast it felt like it might give out. I wanted to be sick. My hands were shaking. My stomach turned. And yet...

There was a weightlessness in my chest I didn't expect. A rush.

One pull of the trigger and I'd hold the power of God. Life. Death. Mercy. Vengeance.

A single tear rolled down my cheek. Then another. I couldn't stop them. I didn't want to cry—but I was crying like a child. Trembling. Confused.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I don't want to... but you're not giving me a choice."

He begged again. His voice was so small. So human.

I hesitated.

And then... I didn't.

I pressed the gun to his temple, turned my face, and pulled the trigger.

The sound was deafening—but what shook me wasn't the gunshot. It was the silence afterward. The stillness. The way the world seemed to pause for me, like time was holding its breath. Blood splashed warm across my face. His body crumpled at my feet like trash.

And for one sick, splintered second... I felt invincible.

Emilio's voice buzzed in my earpiece, casual and smug. "Cole's waiting outside. Your dad will meet you at the warehouse. Cleanup crew is inbound. Oh—and nice job, sweetheart. Little sloppy, but you'll get better."

I yanked the earpiece out and slammed it to the ground, shattering it beneath my heel.

Get better?

I stared at my trembling hands. The blood already drying under my nails. My chest rose and fell in ragged bursts.

I didn't want to get better at this. I didn't want it to be easy. But... there was a part of me—a dark, hungry part—that wanted to do it again.

That scared me more than anything.

I dropped the gun into my bag, walked out of the house, and collapsed onto the gravel driveway. I could still feel the warmth of his blood on my skin. It made me want to peel my body off like it didn't belong to me anymore.

And then I cried.

Not soft, delicate sobs. I fell to my knees and howled. Like something was being torn from inside me.

Cole ran over, his footsteps pounding against the concrete. He crouched beside me, arms wrapping around me before I could even process it. I didn't stop him. I needed to feel something that wasn't rage or guilt or twisted pride.

"Skylar," he whispered against my hair. "You're okay. I've got you."

"I can't do this," I sobbed. "I don't want to be this person."

He pulled back, brushing hair from my face with stained fingers. "You don't have to be—not all at once. I'll talk to our dads, okay? They'll go easier on you. Give you time."

I looked up at him, voice barely audible. "How many have you killed?"

He hesitated. Swallowed. "Too many to count. But I did it because I had to."

That's the lie we all tell ourselves, I thought.

He helped me up and led me to the car. I sank into the passenger seat, silent, blood crusted beneath my nails. I didn't wipe it off. I didn't even flinch when I saw my reflection in the mirror.

I didn't recognize the girl staring back.

The warehouse looked like nothing from the outside. But inside, it was alive. People moved with purpose. Some lounged, some cleaned weapons, others whispered. All of them stopped when they saw me.

I kept my head down and walked through the crowd, my heels echoing like gunshots.

Cole handed me a change of clothes. "From your dad," he said.

I took it silently and disappeared into the bathroom. The mirror didn't lie. I was covered in blood. My red dress was nearly black with it. My eyes were puffy. My lips pale. My knuckles torn.

I stepped into the shower and watched as the water turned pink, then red, then clear again. And I stood there long after the water lost its warmth.

This isn't what my mom would've wanted for me.

She never knew what I was meant to become. The heir to my father's empire. The next queen of this rotting dynasty. Would she have tried to save me—or would she have seen this darkness inside me before I did?

Sometimes I wonder if Dad ever really wanted a daughter. He's trying now—with Jack. He's the perfect father to him. Jack gets his affection. Jack gets the soft version of him. But me?

I get orders.

I get blood.

I get death.

And part of me likes it.

That's what scares me most.

What has my life become?

My thoughts scattered when I heard the knock on the bathroom door. I turned the water off and wrapped a towel around myself, then cracked the door open.

Cole was standing there, leaning against the frame, that cocky smirk on his face like always.

His eyes traveled slowly down my body, then back up. He didn't say anything for a beat, and neither did I.

"What do you want?" I asked, my voice flat.

He cleared his throat. "Your dad's here. I've got some shit to handle. Just wanted to say... I'll see you later, beautiful."

I nodded, just once.

As he turned to leave, I whispered, "Okay, Moretti..."

But he was already gone.

I shut the door and leaned against it, the towel still clutched to my chest.

And I thought about how easy it had been. How good it felt to pull that trigger.

And how badly I wanted to feel it again.