Chapter 35: 𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖐 𝖎𝖋 𝕴 𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖎𝖙 𝖙𝖔 𝖞𝖔𝖚, 𝖞𝖔𝖚’𝖑𝖑 𝖘𝖑𝖊𝖊𝖕 𝖇𝖊𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖗?

𝕸𝖆𝖋𝖎𝖆'𝖘 𝕹𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖘𝖎𝖘

“No—” Grinch countered. “Just one—I have only one question”.

“Okay” Blade grinned.

“Where the hell were you last night, and what happened out there…

Before you came back and tried to put a hole in my ribs?”.

Antonio’s smile fades, he looks away for a moment. Then Grinch continued.

“Why did you suddenly start aiming at your shadow, calling it the enemy?”

“You’re not my enemy.” Antonio growled like a wounded lion. “Moreover, you’re still breathing.”

“Only because I didn’t shoot back.” Grinch countered flatly. “Whole truth is that, you’re starting to treat me like trash”

Antonio finally lowers his gaze—just for a beat. Shame and regret.

“You should’ve stayed out of it, when I asked you to”

Grinch’s eyes hold stead—concern and brutal loyalty. “You should’ve just let me in.”

“You left with a restraining order, and came back with murder in your eyes…So tell me—what did you see out there?”

Antonio looks away for a second. Nods in acknowledgment. The kind, men like them give in place of anything emotional.

“I went to Lucas—I had mares again” He turned toward a chair, dragging it beside the bed.

Sits. Back straight. The confession was raw. There’s history in it now.

“What did he say?” Grinch's interest piqued.

“That a*shole” Antonio throated, and there was flashback to the night before.

☆☆☆𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖓𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖇𝖊𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖊 𝖔𝖗 𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖘 𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖑𝖞 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌 1:18𝖆𝖒☆☆☆

The Sea was dead quiet except for the buzz of Antonio's speedboat as it made its way through the inky dark water—

No Consigliere, No soldier hounds {Errand boys}.Just the sea waves—cold and humming.

As he got closer to the Gulf of New Mexico, the wind cut sharp across the sea bed, leaving behind a low groan of steel.

Looming ahead was the single overhead light and the distant buzz of the Don's ship.

The midnight waves slapped against the hull of Lucas' ship like impatient hands.

Antonio climbed aboard—hair disheveled, breath ragged like he’d run the whole way from the city instead of sailing.

His eyes were bloodshot, shirt half-buttoned—still clinging to the sweat of sleep.

A lone overhead lamp illuminated his menacing silhouette, pyjamas unmoving in the wind—the soles of his barefoot making soft echoes on deck's gangway.

“Welcome boss” Lucas' soldiers acknowledged, but Antonio said nothing—his shoulders squaring.

“Bruno {gangster tough guy} you look like hell,” Carlos remarked, voice low—measured.

Antonio stopped three paces short, turning to him.

“Where's Lucas?” He demanded—voice rough, and laced with desperation.

Carlos’ lungs worked—he let out a slow alcohol laced breath through his nose.

Letting the silence stretch—he stared at Antonio like his brain might open on its own.

Then just as he was about to lose it, Carlos opened up.

“Do you have a death wish?” Antonio spat, voice tight—hands curling into fists

“The Brig {Jail Cell}” Carlos cut in softly.

Not because he wanted to — but because Antonio clearly wore a murderous glare.

“Son of a bitch” Antonio hissed.

Without looking back, he disappeared into the shadows of the ship—straight to the Black Room{cargo hold}.

Carlos didn’t just watch him leave. He quickly swirled his mobile, whispering into the gadget.

“El lobo está suelto… y vino sin correa.{The wolf is loose… and he came without a leash.}”

Antonio stepped into the cargo hold, his pulse hammering.

The wooden floor was still wet from the blood of the last man who thought crossing the Don was brave.

Sitting at the bolted-down table near the railing—stirring a glass of Scotch with a single cube was Lucas.

He didn’t flinch, rather he was already waiting.

A lion skinned shawl draped over his shoulders—sleeves rolled, knuckles scarred from the last blood he just spilled.

“You came uninvited,” Lucas murmured, without looking up.

“I need their name,” Antonio said, stepping in, “Black leather. Broken lace. Limped on the right leg.”

Lucas let his silence stretch, until it was a collar around Antonio’s throat.

“You should be sleeping,” he said finally—voice silk and iron.

Enraged Antonio walked closer, slamming his two fists to the table,

“I f*cking saw their faces again,” his voice came out rough, aggressive.

Lucas' glass of scotch tipped over, spilling all over the table—without a word, he leaned back. Silent. Waiting.

“Why are you withholding their identity—at the expense of my sleep?”

“There were five men—three are dead. Give me the remaining two names, or perhaps...one—I’ve earned that much.”

Lucas glanced at the mess Blade Knuckles made, then at him. Calm. Cold. Calculating.

“You think if I hand it to you, you’ll sleep better?” Lucas asked unblinkingly like a seasoned puppeteer—his voice ticking like a bomb timer.

“Yes,” Antonio replied. Too fast.

“You’ve never been a good liar around me.” Lucas said, almost smiling.

“I don’t know—just give me the names, cause I’ll never stop coming.” Antonio maintained, standing straight.

“I’m not leaving without it—not today.”

“Of course—my boy,” Lucas agreed softly. He let his reassurance linger.

A gust rocked the ship. Somewhere below deck, chains clinked—his boys getting rid of the family's rebellion.

“Is that a yes?” Antonio rasped in disbelief.

Instead of speaking, Lucas exhaled through his nose—a phantom smile at the corner of his mouth.

Then, without emotion, he opened the steel drawer by his side, pulled out a fat envelope, and slid it across the table with two fingers.

The seal was fresh—blood red wax, no initials.

Antonio stepped forward with enthusiasm and grabbed it.

“Finally—after all these years, I have the names.”

Lucas answered with a slow shake of the head—no words, just denial wrapped in authority.

“Are they Mexicans?”, he continued as he ripped the envelope open, jaw flexing.

“No.....probably a lead,” Lucas corrected.

“Target’s coming for a seminar in Enchanted hills. Finish it clean, no noise.”

Antonio paused what he was doing. “That’s not what I came for?”

“But it’s what you’ll take.” Lucas tilted his head, almost amused.

Blade blinked in defeat. “Wait—you brought me out here for a hit?”

“No,” Lucas said. finally standing up. He was fully dressed — charcoal pajamas, shawl tucked in.

His eyes flicked down— at the bare feet, the half-buttoned shirt, the way Antonio’s hands clenched like they were still trying to hold something that kept slipping away.

“You brought yourself out here. I’m just giving you a purpose.”

Antonio stared at the envelope like it was poison. “I don’t want another name on a list,” he snapped.

“I only want the remaining two names—Why won’t you tell me?”

Lucas let out a slow breath through his nose, which was followed by the tiniest shrug.

“What would happen if I told you? You find them, kill them, and that’s it? All better?”

The words hit like a defeat. Antonio stepped back—face twisted with disappointment—but Lucas simply closed the distance between them

“You’re a man with a hole in his chest. And I’m the only one who knows how to fill it,” he reached for Antonio's buttons, closing it.

“I’m only keeping you sharp, because grief is a knife — blunt it, and you start asking the wron—.”

“No,” Antonio throated, slapping off his hand. “I won't do it—I’m not your puppet, Lucas.”

"Lucas?" Lucas smirked faintly, because Antonio just addressed him by his name,

“You’ll do the job anyway,” he murmured, brushing it off.

“You’re my blade and one thing is clear—rage is loyalty when it's fed correctly.”

Antonio didn’t respond. He just tossed the envelope onto the metal table beside them—and turned to leave.

Lucas glanced at the envelope, then at departing Antonio.

As he reached the door, Lucas broke the silence again, quieter now.

“Antonio.”

Blade paused, not looking back. “I won't change my mind. I won’t take your contracts from now henceforth—you don't own me.”

“But I own your loyalty and your patience. Or am I mistaken?” Lucas replied smoothly

Antonio shook his head. “I buried my soul in this business, but it's obvious I staked a lot—cause I couldn't earn the only thing I wished...”

Lucas leaned forward, voice silk and iron. “No, Antonio. You want revenge. And that alone makes you mine.”

A long silence sank in, then Antonio’s fingers twitched. “You’ve dangled that act over me for thirty four years.”

“And you’re still here, aren’t you?” Lucas said, stepping forward. “That should tell you about who really needs who.”

Antonio didn’t respond, rather his throat worked. He turned slowly, staring at the envelope like it was a burden.

Then with trembling fingers he grabbed it. Not because he wanted to — but because Lucas was right.

“I’ll finish your job,” he said. “But when I come back, you’d better pray I don’t care about your name too.”

“Good decision ,” Lucas applauded, cold and final.

“That memory keeps you sharp. Without it, you’re just another man with a gun and nothing to aim at.”

Antonio didn’t utter a word of response, he rather turned and disappeared into the shadows of the ship.

Folder in hand, revenge still clawing in his spine, while his bare feet echoed against the deck—each step an oath.

Behind him, Lucas lit a match, watched the flame flicker, and whispered to the wind

“Good soldier.”

His hand rested on the drawer with another envelope still inside.

Undoubtedly, he knew the hook was still set, he only had to tighten the leash.