Too Late To Beg: The Scapegoat's Revenge

The violence erupts before I can draw a breath.

The Capo, humiliated and desperate for an outlet for his rage, charges across the room like a bull seeing red.

He doesn't look at his son. His eyes are locked on me.

"You little bitch!" he screams, spittle flying from his lips.

My father tries to step in his path, his hands raised in a futile gesture of peace. "Please, sir, she would never—"

The Capo backhands my father with a sickening crack, using enough force to send him sprawling to the ground.

"Papa!" I scream, my carefully composed mask slipping for the first time.

I drop to my knees beside him, reaching for his shoulder, but a fist tangles in my hair and yanks me upward with brutal force.

It’s the Capo. His face is a terrifying shade of purple, veins bulging with fury.

He punches me.

Pain explodes inside my skull.

I taste the sharp, metallic tang of copper. My vision swims in and out of focus.

I stumble backward, losing my footing and hitting the cold marble floor hard.

"You ruined my son!" the Capo bellows, driving his boot into my ribs.

I curl into a ball, gasping for air as agony radiates through my chest.

The crowd, the loyal soldiers who have known me since I was a child, are now baying for blood.

"Traitor!"

"Whore!"

"Kill her!"

They don't need proof. They just need a sacrifice to cleanse the shame of the morning.

Through the forest of legs and the haze of pain, my eyes find Dante.

He is standing by his mother, who is stroking his arm, murmuring comforts to him.

He is looking right at me.

And he is smiling.

It's a small, relieved curve of his lips. The smile of a man who thinks he got away with it. He believes I am nothing but collateral damage, a disposable shield to protect his inheritance.

That smile is the final severing of the cord.

The last microscopic thread of the girl who loved him dissolves in the corrosive acid of my hatred.

I wipe the blood from my split lip, my resolve hardening like steel.

My hand trembles, not from fear, but from pure adrenaline.

I reach inside my blazer, my fingers frantically searching for the hidden seam.

My primary phone was taken by security at the door. But they didn't check for the burner phone I sewed into the silk lining of my jacket this morning.

I rip the stitching and pull it out.

My thumb hovers over the screen.

"Wait!" I shout.

My voice is ragged, wet with blood, but it cuts through the noise like a blade.

The Capo freezes, his boot hovering inches from my face, ready to stomp.

"I have proof!" I scream, staring up at him.

The Consigliere, standing by the Don, raises a sharp hand. "Hold."

The Capo hesitates, his chest heaving.

"She's lying!" Dante shrieks, his voice cracking and rising an octave. "Don't listen to her!"

I scramble to my knees and hold the phone up high, the screen glowing like a beacon in the dim room.

"Connect this to the speakers," I say, shifting my gaze directly to the Don. "If I'm lying, you can kill me slowly. But if I'm telling the truth, you want to hear this."

The room falls into a deadly silence. The Don studies me for a long, agonizing second.

Then, he nods once.

An enforcer steps forward, snatches the phone from my hand, and plugs it into the room's audio system.

I look at Dante.

His smile is gone.

"Play it," I whisper.