Page 7 of Diary from an Inked Throne

The only acceptable response would be Nyah had killed my old man.

But my gut said she hadn’t. She might have been a Mafia brat, but she didn’t have cold-blooded murder in her.

No sound came from the other side.

In a voice that was laced with acid and so deep I barely recognized it as my own, I made a demand. “If Carlos Guerra is dead, then I am the next in line. His entire empire falls at my feet. I don’t give a shit who you are, you now work for me. Open the fucking door.”

Lynx and Dax fell silent, both of them staring at me.

The guards on the other side stammered, “We don’t work for—”

I didn’t care if they weren’t my father’s men. I didn’t give the man a chance to finish. “Open the fucking door!”

A lock slid open. And then another. And another.

The handle turned.

The door opened.

Three guards I didn’t recognize stood on the other side, all of them staring at me.

But all I saw was red.

“Smart choice.” I stepped forward, put my hands either side of the closest guard’s head, and snapped his neck.

He crumpled on the floor at my feet, his dead, unseeing eyes staring up at me.

Like I fucking cared.

The other guards whimpered, putting their hands up, like that might save them.

Though maybe it would, because I was all out of time. I shoved past both of them and took the stairs in twos, despite the muscles in my legs protesting the sudden bout of exercise after not moving much for weeks.

I couldn’t see Lynx and Dax behind me, but I couldn’t stop and turn back.

I just trusted they were there, all three of us with the same purpose.

Get to her.

Save her.

Love her.

The stairs wound their way up to ground level, each step burning through my wasting thigh muscles. The door at the top was open, and we burst through it.

I’d heard the guard say my father was dead.

But nothing could have prepared me for the sight of his lifeless body, his unseeing eyes, the pool of blood surrounding him on the altar steps.

A few people still milled around the church pews, shock written all over their expressions. A priest knelt above my father’s body, crossing himself and muttering prayers over his corpse. Tears streamed down his ruddy cheeks.

But all I could think was Nyah’s body wasn’t lying there beside my father’s.

Flowers decorated the church.

The ones in the front rows sprayed with his blood.

And yet I felt nothing for him, other than emotionless and hard. “What happened? Where is she?” I demanded.