I kick the door in hard, and there he is.
Roman.
The bastard still stands. He’s like a cat with nine fucking lives.
One hand holds a pistol.
The other?
A fucking grenade.
“If I go,” his mouth is curled into a bloody smile, “we all go.”
My fingers twitch, and Max raises his fists, ready to lunge, but I hold him back.
Roman’s eyes glitter, pupils dilated like a cornered animal. He’s sick. Weak. But he’s still dangerous.
“You think you’ll take us with you?” I ask, stepping forward.
Roman shrugs, jaw twitching. “What’s the point? You came all this way to see me die. I’m saving you the trouble.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I mutter.
He licks his cracked lips. “You don’t have it in you, Dante. You’re a follower. You only kill when someone tells you to.”
“You sure about that?” I growl.
His finger edges toward the grenade pin.
I move.
I hit him hard, shoulder to chest, and we both go down. The grenade tumbles out of his hand and rolls into the corner. Max dives for it, slaps his hand over it, keeps the pin intact.
Roman and I crash to the floor, fists flying. Mine land solid, fueled by days of rage, fear, and helpless fucking silence.
He punches my shoulder, the injured one, and pain spikes through me like lightning. I roar through it, slamming his head into the floor again and again.
Blood in my mouth. His blood is on my hands.
He coughs, groans, still fighting. Bastard won’t stop.
“Are you going to kill me now?” He spits, blood trailing from his lips. “Go ahead. Fucking do it.”
I kneel over him, breathing hard, pressing my weight into his chest until he wheezes.
“You want me to end you?” I snarl. “After everything? That’s too easy.”
“Fuck you,” he hisses. “Knox is dead. You’re too late.”
I smile.
“Knox is alive.”
His eyes widen.
“Your doctor, the one that’s keeping you alive, is saving Knox right now.”
Roman blinks; he’s trying to cover the fear, but it’s there.
