Thin line

{Elena} Revenge isn’t loud. It isn’t chaotic. It isn’t rushed. It’s slow, patient—like the way poison seeps into the bloodstream. By the time you realize what’s happening, it’s already too late. I learned that the night my family was murdered. I was sixteen when the DeLuca family ripped my world apart. My father—once a powerful figure in the underworld—had made the fatal mistake of trusting the wrong people. A deal turned into a betrayal. A betrayal turned into a m******e. The night had started like any other. My mother humming in the kitchen. My father was on the phone, voice sharp but calm—the way it always was when he talked business. I was in my room, lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking about nothing. Then the screams came. I sat up so fast my vision blurred. My mother’s voice—raw and desperate—ripped through the house. “Please, no—not like this!” Then a gunshot. I stopped breathing. My body moved before my mind caught up, feet hitting the floor as I stumbled toward the hallway. My hands shook as I reached for the door handle, but before I could turn it, another shot rang out. And then silence. No. Something inside me cracked wide open, a terror so vast it nearly swallowed me whole. My fingers went numb, my heart slamming against my ribs as I forced myself forward, one slow step at a time. I peered down the hall. The front door was wide open, the warm glow of our chandelier spilling into the night. Shadows moved inside. Voices, low and amused, floated through the air. I crept closer, pressing myself against the wall, my pulse roaring in my ears. Then I saw them. My father was on the floor, his eyes open but lifeless. Blood spread across his crisp white shirt, soaking into the floor beneath him. He lay sprawled on the marble floor, his body twisted at an unnatural angle, blood pooling beneath him like a dark halo. My mother was beside him Her golden hair, always brushed to perfection, was tangled and damp with blood, her eyes wide open but unseeing, her lips still parted in the final, unfinished plea. Something inside me broke when her fingers twitched once—only once—before going still. A sound clawed its way up my throat—a sob, a scream, a plea—but I bit it back so hard I tasted blood. I wanted to run to them. Shake them. Make them wake up. But I couldn’t move. I stood there, frozen in place, watching as the men who had stolen everything from me laughed over their bodies. “She should’ve kept her mouth shut,” one of them said, nudging my mother’s lifeless form with his boot. Everywhere was dark but I could make out his face. His features were sharp, along with his accent, it was obvious he was European, maybe French. His full hair was covered in silver. He kicked my mother's lifeless body once more before tucking his gun in his back pocket. At that point, My vision blurred with rage. j “Boss said no loose ends,” another man muttered, rolling his shoulders. His form was larger, more rigid than the other. A third man—taller, broader, more dangerous—let out a sharp breath. “Enough talking. Let’s move.” They turned toward the door. I backed up, slow, silent, my hands clamped over my mouth. My whole body was shaking, my legs screaming to run, but my brain wouldn’t work. Then—one of them paused. Silver looked around, his dark eyes swept the room. For a moment, I was sure he saw me. I pressed myself into the shadows, barely daring to breathe. Seconds passed. Then he turned away. And just like that, they were gone. The front door swung shut. Footsteps faded into the night. I waited. One second. Two. Five. Then I collapsed. My knees hit the floor so hard pain exploded through me, but I didn’t care. They were gone. My parents were gone. And I was alone. A sob wrenched free from my chest, then another, then another, until I couldn’t stop them. Tears blurred my vision as I crawled forward, my fingers brushing against my mother’s ice-cold skin. I curled into her side, just like I used to as a child, waiting for her to wake up. For her to stroke my hair, hum a lullaby, whisper that it was just a bad dream. But she didn’t move. She never would again. Something inside me died that night. But something else was born. Rage. Cold. Consuming. Deadly. The DeLuca family thought they had erased the Romano name from existence. They thought they had won. They had no idea they had just created their worst nightmare. Because I would make them suffer. I would make them bleed.