Page 93 of Venomous Throne

“Stay between us,” Franky ordered curtly; then we ran for it together, three shadows sprinting across moon-bleached grass while Johnny picked off shooters at our right flank with surgical precision.

The crack of a bullet hitting bark sent me sprawling forward. I landed hard, the impact forcing air from my lungs in a painful gasp. Vincenzo dropped beside me, his body shielding mine as Johnny's rifle answered with three precise shots. A scream pierced the night—someone had found their mark.

“Move, now!” Franky hissed, pulling me to my feet.

We reached the first oak tree, its ancient trunk offering momentary shelter. Blood trickled from a cut above my eye, warm and sticky against my skin. I wiped it away, leaving a crimson streak across my trembling hand.

I felt it, even as my hand pressed the wound at my temple: a sensation like ice water sluiced through my veins, numbing what was left of the fear and shock. In its place, something unfamiliar and volcanic began to well up—a cold fury that burned cleaner than any terror. My mind reordered itself. The pain, the losses, even the image of Joseph’s dying gaze, all collapsed into a single point of clarity. These men—the ones who invaded my house, slaughtered my people—had made a mistake. Not just in striking first, but in assuming I would run like prey.

They had underestimated me.

In another life, maybe I would have crumpled on the grass, sobbing into my hands, or begged for terms from whichever monster was brave enough to face me. But this wasn’t grief anymore, it was war. For every breath I took now, there would be payment extracted until the ledger ran red and empty.

As I crouched behind the tree trunk with Franky tight at my shoulder and Johnny pacing our rear guard like a stalking lion, I realized with almost clinical detachment that I’d changed somewhere between the bedroom and here. Maybe this was what it meant to lose everything—maybe this was true power: not inherited or appointed but forged by necessity and rage.

I looked up from my bloodied palms and met Vincenzo’s eyes. He saw it too—the new thing in me—and nodded once. Fromnow on, every move we made would be calculated, ruthless, and final.

This attack was no longer just about Bonetti or Mancini or business; it was about vengeance. And unlike fear, vengeance fit me like a tailored dress.

They thought they could erase me before sunrise? I’d turn the dawn into an alarm bell that would haunt them until they died.

“Let’s keep moving,” I said. My voice sounded strange, steady, and sharp, as if someone else wore my body.

We bolted from cover just as another volley rattled the branches above us. Somewhere behind us a window shattered. I prayed no civilians were caught in the crossfire.

Vincenzo broke the window of a car parked on the street—a black Audi too nice to be left alone on a Chicago street, yet oh so convenient for us. He began to tinker with the fuses and wires under the wheel. Johnny reached it next, yanking open the rear door and practically throwing me inside. Franky slid in beside me while Vincenzo took the wheel, Johnny riding shotgun.

The engine roared to life as bullets pinged off the bumper. Vincenzo floored it, tires spinning on gravel before finding purchase. We shot forward, headlights off, navigating by moonlight alone.

“Stay down,” Johnny ordered, twisting in his seat to fire through the cracked window.

I pressed myself against the leather upholstery, my sleeper set torn and bloodied. The mansion—my home—receded in the rearview mirror, orange flames now licking at the east wing. My throat tightened at the sight.

This was only the beginning. In this internal war, every traitor to our famiglia who sided with the other faction, every bastard with Moretti blood on his hands, would bleed into the earth. On that, I made a sacred vow.

Chapter 35 – Jaxon

Cockroaches had a way of existing despite the best attempts to purge an area of the source. Killing one did nothing if the nest wasn’t eradicated, and the main threat exterminated. They just kept coming, creeping out in the dark, scurrying around as though they owned every square inch of space.

I hated roaches.

But not as much as I hated the twitching lump of flesh in front of me.

“Please, please! I know nothing,” the mafia soldier gurgled.

Or…at least that was what I thought he said. It was hard to tell when all his teeth were missing, and the holes leaked blood.

I crouched, bringing myself level to him. I hadn’t said a word this entire time. Ever since catching the soldier and bringing him to this foreclosed shed, some official zoned as a single-family home. I found that it worked best when I didn’t speak, simply let the recipient of my dark muse warble.

They always spilt the best secrets that way.

But tonight, there was a particular thread of information I wanted.

Holding up the drill bit, I made a show of inserting it into the cordless drill. The acrid scent of piss filled the air again. How he had anything left in his bladder at this point was hard to say.

“Man, it’s not worth it,” the mobster moaned. “My boss is terrible. He treats us like shit. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

My finger curled over the trigger.