Valentina.
The words echoed in my head like a gunshot, deafening and final.
Pedro Nevarro is dead.
My hands trembled as I lowered my gun, my mind racing. Pedro Nevarro was the father to Matteo, Luca, and Sophia Nevarro. An institution that defies all forces and came back stronger to rule his gang with his heir.
If Luca had managed to kill him…
I didn’t finish the thought. I couldn’t.
In front of me, Isabella’s smirk widened, her eyes gleaming with a twisted sort of satisfaction.
She confused me most times. The woman who had changed within minutes of our departure, then helped me by giving me clues and all…
“Well,” she said lightly, brushing imaginary dust off her sleeve, “it seems our dear family is shrinking faster than expected.”
But irrespective of all she had done for me, I didn’t know her. Didn’t understand her. Didn’t trust her.
So I shot her a glare, my chest tightening with fury. “Shut up, Isabella.”
But she didn’t. Of course, she didn’t.
She was much more talkative when she was well fed, didn’t look like Luca was controlling her, and no one was actively torturing her.
Was that even real? The torture?
When she spoke again, her voice was calmer, almost detached, as she stepped closer to where our mother sat slumped on the floor.
“Pedro Nevarro, dead,” she mused. “I wonder how it happened. Do you think he begged? Or did Luca gut him like the pig he was?”
“Stop it,” I snapped, my voice rising.
Isabella ignored me, crouching down to meet our mother’s glazed, unfocused eyes. “Do you know he almost killed me when he saw me riding Luca? Almost shot my head off since I was supposed to marry Matteo and all?” She let out a soft sigh. “What do you think, Mother? Did Pedro scream for mercy before the end? Did he cry?”
Our mother didn’t answer. Her lips twitched, and then… God help us all… she started to laugh.
It wasn’t a laugh of humour or joy. It was something jagged and broken, a sound that clawed at the air around us.
Isabella surely didn’t appreciate that because she straightened immediately, her face scrunching up as she stared even longer at mom.
“Stop laughing,” she said through gritted teeth.
But our mother didn’t. If anything, the sound grew louder, more unhinged. She leaned back against the wall, clutching her sides as though the absurdity of the situation had finally pushed her over the edge.
“Did you hear me?” Isabella’s voice was a growl now, her hand flying to the holster at her hip.
I stepped forward, alarm prickling at the edges of my mind. “Isabella, don’t…”
The crack of the gunshot was deafening.
Our mother’s laughter stopped abruptly, her body jerking to the side as the bullet tore through her ribs. Blood bloomed across her dress, dark and spreading.
“Isabella!” I shouted, horrified.
But my sister was already lowering the gun, her expression eerily calm. “What?” she said, shrugging. “I told her to stop.”
Our mother gasped, her hand pressing to the wound as she glared up at Isabella with something that almost resembled pride.
“You think that’s going to scare me?” she spat, her voice hoarse but defiant.
Isabella’s lips curved into a smile… a slow, cruel thing that made my stomach turn.
“Scare you?” she repeated, her tone laced with mockery. “Oh, Mother. Scaring you isn’t the point.”
I froze as Isabella raised the gun again, her eyes gleaming with a madness I didn’t recognize.
“Let’s play a game,” she said with a singsong tone. “How many shots can dear Mother take before she starts begging?”
“No,” I breathed, the word barely audible over the sound of my own pulse pounding in my ears.
Isabella didn’t wait for a response.
The next shot shattered the air, hitting our mother’s arm.
She cried out, the sound ripping through the room like a jagged blade.
“Isabella, stop!” I shouted, my voice cracking.
My sister ignored me, firing again. This time, the bullet found our mother’s leg.
The scream that followed was raw and guttural, tearing through my chest like a physical blow.
“Still no begging?” Isabella said, tilting her head. “You really are a stubborn old witch.”
She fired again. And again.
Blood pooled on the floor, dark and sticky, as our mother’s body jerked with each shot.
“Isabella, stop!” I screamed, grabbing her arm.
She wrenched free, turning to me with a wild, manic grin. “Why?” she demanded, her voice a mix of glee and fury. “She deserves this, Valentina! She deserves every second of it!”
I stumbled back, horrified.
Our mother’s breaths were ragged now, her body slumped against the wall. Blood poured from her wounds, staining the floor, her dress, everything.
She wasn’t going to survive this.
I knew it.
Isabella knew it.
And still, she raised the gun again, her laughter echoing through the room.
“Stop,” I whispered, my voice shaking.
But she didn’t.
The gun cocked, and the sound was loud and final.
“No,” I said, louder this time.
Isabella’s finger tightened on the trigger.
“Enough!”
The word tore from my throat as I raised my own gun, my hands trembling.
Isabella froze, her eyes narrowing as she turned to me. “What are you doing, Valentina?”
“She’s going to die,” I said, my voice breaking. “You’ve already killed her.”
“No,” Isabella said, her smile returning. “Not yet. But I will. Slowly.”
I shook my head, tears blurring my vision.
“Valentina,” she said, her voice dripping with mock sweetness, “put the gun down. You don’t have it in you.”
Maybe she was right.
Maybe I didn’t.
But as I looked at our mother… broken, bleeding, and gasping for air… I knew I couldn’t let this go on.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice trembling.
And then I pulled the trigger.
The gunshot rang out, silencing everything.
Our mother’s head snapped back, her body slumping against the wall.
Isabella stared at me, her expression unreadable as the gun fell from her hand. I stood there, frozen, my chest heaving as the weight of what I’d done crashed over me.
The room was silent, save for the sound of my ragged breathing.
“Valentina,” Isabella said softly, her voice almost amused. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”
I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t.
Because in that moment, I wasn’t sure I had either.