The Moretti Obsession

Vivienne The gun was in the nightstand. Three feet away. Three feet had never felt so far. Lucien was asleep, one heavy arm thrown over my waist like I belonged there. His breathing was deep, slow. Safe. The word made me sick. Ten years. I’d rehearsed this in my head every night since I was eight. In foster homes. In shitty apartments where the locks didn’t work. In self-defense classes where I paid cash and gave fake names. I always imagined I’d be steady. Cold. I wasn’t. My hand was shaking. The sheet had slipped to my hips. I was wearing his shirt — black, silk, still warm from his skin. It smelled like him: whiskey, smoke, and the expensive soap he didn’t deserve. Last night he’d dragged me against his chest, mouth at my ear, and said _“You’re mine”_ with this stupid, sure certainty. Like he didn’t put two bullets in my mother and father’s heads while I watched from a closet, biting my hand so I wouldn’t scream. I slid out of bed. My legs felt detached. The floor was ice. 8-4-2-1. He typed it this morning. Didn’t even check if I was looking. Maybe he wanted me to see. Maybe he was testing me. Maybe I’m not as smart as I thought. The safe hissed open. The gun was heavier than it looked. Matte black. No scratches. I checked it yesterday while he was in the shower, hands sweating so bad I almost dropped it. Ten years of training and I’m scared of a piece of metal. I turned. His bedroom was all glass and arrogance. The whole city laid out under us like he was God. He was twenty-three when he took it. Clubs, money, bodies. Cops on payroll. And me, twenty-three, standing in his room with his gun, remembering how my dad used to sing off-key while he made pancakes. Lucien killed him on a Tuesday. I raised the gun. Lined it up with his head. My finger wouldn’t pull. His eyes opened. For a second, neither of us moved. Then he just… looked at me. At the gun. At my face. And his expression changed. Not fear. Not anger. Something worse. Sad. “You know,” he said. Quiet. Not a question. “You killed them,” I said. My voice came out raw. Not cold. Not calculated. Just a daughter’s. He sat up slow. The sheet fell. There was a scar on his ribs, pink and new. I did that. Last night, with my nails, when he had me pinned and I was pretending to lose control. Except I wasn’t pretending. “Your father was my brother, Vivienne.” The gun wavered. My whole arm did. “Cartel,” he added, like that explained it. “He stole from me. Was going to sell me to the federales. Your mother… she got in the way.” “Liar,” I whispered, but my eyes were burning. Because what if he wasn’t? What if I’d spent ten years sharpening a knife for the wrong man? “I’ve known since the club,” he said. “The red dress. The way you hated me before I even spoke. You have his eyes. Same stubborn, stupid eyes.” My throat hurt. “I could have killed you the first night,” he said. “Should have. It would’ve been smart.” “So why didn’t you?” He stood. Didn’t reach for the gun. Didn’t need to. He was taller, broader, awake now, and I was in his shirt, barefoot, holding ten years of grief in shaking hands. “Because,” he said, “the second I saw you, I didn’t care about smart.” The room felt too small. The city too far. “Shoot me,” Lucien said, and took a step. “Or put it down. But don’t stand there and lie to both of us.” My finger twitched. The front door exploded open downstairs. Wood splintering. Shouting. Boots. Spanish, fast and mean. Lucien’s head snapped to the door, then back to me. For the first time since I met him, he looked gutted. Betrayed. “Did you bring them?” he asked. Voice like ice. I hadn’t. But he didn’t believe me. And right then, I wasn’t sure I believed me either. The footsteps hit the stairs.