Page 81 of Dark Reunion

The punch came hard enough to crack a rib, and Dean winced away from the sharp pain. Another followed, the sound of it filling the room. Carlos followed it up with a punch to Dean’s jaw. The guards didn’t move to stop him. Carlos’s madness filled the room like static. And yet Dean didn’t care. He welcomed it…he’d pushed his father over the edge.

“I should’ve killed you when I slit your bitch of a mother’s throat,” he shouted, pacing. “I fed you, trained you, let you have my name, and took you back in even after you dishonored me by leaving. And you repay me with betrayal!”

Dean spat red onto the floor. “You didn’t give me a name. You gave me a curse. Ramírez is nothing but a stain. One I’ve tried to scrub away, but you just refuse to let me go.”

Carlos lunged, grabbing him by the hair, and jerked him to his feet. “You think I won’t break you,” he hissed. “You think I haven’t broken better men than you?”

Dean’s smile was small, brutal. “You underestimate me again, father.”

For a heartbeat, neither moved.

Then Carlos’s fist smashed into his face again, the sound echoing like a hammer against glass. Dean’s vision swam, but the laughter that bubbled up was dangerous. As feral as the night’s wind outside.

“You can’t cage a demon, old man,” Dean said slowly. “And mark my word…one is coming for you.”

Carlos froze, eyes gleaming with something between rage and fear. Then he jerked his chin at the men. “Take him. Let him think about what defiance costs in solitary confinement. I’ll deal with him tomorrow.” The guards started to march him to the door when Carlos yelled again. “And find Isabella. Now!”

They dragged Dean through the corridor barefoot, bleeding, and leaving a crimson trail across the white tile.

He didn’t fight. There was no point right now. But he did take note of every man’s face that was part of his father’s attack on him. The mansion pulsed around him, like it was alive and ready for what was to come. Somewhere, far off, he could hear the distant thud of music, a sick contrast to the quiet rage inside him.

The door to solitary opened with a scream of metal. They threw him in, the impact knocking the wind from his chest. Cold air wrapped around him like an unwelcome friend. Concrete walls, floor slick with old blood, filth, and the kind of dampness that seeped into your bones.

The door slammed, and in the silence, Dean assessed his injuries. Without light, he couldn’t tell how bad they really were and hoped nothing was life-threatening.

He lay still for a long time, tasting the metallic taste of his own blood, waiting for the world to stop spinning. Then slowly, he pushed up onto his knees. Every muscle screamed, but he stayed upright.

“You’ll die by my hand, old man,” he whispered. “The knife is already at your throat.”

The darkness didn’t mourn for men like him. In the dark, Dean Ramírez counted his bruises like prayer beads, making a vow that would not be undone.

When dawn came, he wouldn’t rise as his father’s son. He’d rise as the storm that would end him. Tomorrow, Keene would arrive, and whether he lived or died, it didn’t matter. Only their destruction.

Dean settled on the metal bed. The darkness pressed in from the concrete itself, a cold weight that promised death.