The Bastard's Blade

Chapter 6

The cold rain hit my face like a slap, grounding me as I rode away from the warehouse. Every gear shift was a jagged memory of the twenty years he’d spent building walls I was now about to tear down.

‎I reached the Vault in no time. It was a brutal megalith of concrete and glass, shimmering under the city’s artificial glow. Charlotte was right—the outer edge was crawling. Salvatore’s personal "clenched fists" were out in force, their tactical flashlights cutting through the downpour like frantic needles.

‎I didn't slow down. I cut the engine a block away and ghosted through the shadows of the service entrance. The codes from the armory transport chirped a soft green on the keypad. The first lie worked.

‎Inside, the air was thick with the scent of ozone and expensive shredded paper. I found him in the center of the penthouse, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows. He looked smaller than he did in my nightmares, hunched over a mahogany desk, frantically feeding the last of his legacy into a burner.

‎"Vera?" His voice cracked as I stepped into the light. He didn't look for a weapon; he looked for a savior. "Charlotte... She's burned the docks. She’s coming here. I knew you’d come. Family... it’s all we have when the world turns."

‎I didn't lower the silver revolver. I watched the relief in his eyes curdling into a slow, horrific realization as he noticed I wasn't breathless, I wasn't running, and I wasn't alone. The tactical earpiece hummed—Charlotte’s silent presence on the other end of the line.

‎"You're right, Dad," I said, the word tasted like copper. "Family is everything. That’s why I’m the only one who gets to watch the lights go out."

‎I reached into my jacket and pulled out the record book I’d lifted from the transport—the one thing he needed to rebuild. I didn't hand it to him. I tossed it into the burner.

‎His scream was lost in the sudden, violent shattering of the glass behind him. Charlotte hadn't just sent a ghost; she’d sent a distraction, and I was the one holding the match.

‎

"Drop it, Vera," he growled, the mask of the desperate victim slipping to reveal the predator beneath. He didn't reach for a gun; he reached for a heavy glass decanter, shattering it against the desk to create a jagged, crystalline blade. "You were always too emotional. Charlotte sees it. I see it. You don't have the stomach for what comes next."

‎I didn't drop the revolver. I stepped into his space, the distance between us shrinking until I could smell the expensive scotch and the rot of his dying empire. "I have twenty years of your 'lessons' in my stomach, Dad. I'm full."

‎He lunged with a speed that defied his age, the glass shard whistling past my ear. I blocked with the barrel of the gun, the metal clashing against the glass with a bone-shaking jar. I didn't fire. This wasn't about a bullet; it was about the deep rooted weight of the betrayal.

‎We slammed into the mahogany desk, wood smashing under our combined weight. He was stronger than he looked, his fingers clawing at my throat, trying to find the pulse he’d once claimed to protect. I drove my knee into his ribs, hearing the muffled c***k that signaled the end of his breath—and his leverage.

‎"You're... just... like me," he wheezed, blood flecking his lips as I pinned him against the cold floor. The silver revolver pressed into the soft hollow of his throat.

‎"No," I whispered, my voice a ragged edge. "You built a cage. I'm building a graveyard."

‎The tactical earpiece crackled. Charlotte’s voice was a low, clinical purr. "Finish it, Vera. Before the 'clenched fists' reach the door. Prove you're the blade, not the shadow."

‎I looked into his eyes—searching for a flicker of the father I’d invented as a child. I only found a mirror of my own cold fury.