Terrified beyond thinking but still driven by survival instinct, I burrowed under Mum's hanging clothes on the closet floor, trying to escape the advancing flames. My hands found a silk scarf that had fallen from a hanger during the struggle, suddenly seeing it as possible salvation rather than just a fashion item.
Dad's practical safety lessons came back through my fog of fear. Wet fabric over your mouth helps filter smoke.
I dragged myself toward the small bathroom attached to the closet,desperately trying to reach running water to dampen the makeshift mask. The sink was just out of reach, requiring me to stand, which I couldn't do as the thick smoke forced me to crawl along the floor searching for any remaining oxygen.
The plan failed as the fire got hotter. Heat came through the closet walls even where flames hadn't reached yet. The right side of my body faced the door where flames now came through widening gaps in the wood, my pajamas catching fire despite my desperate attempts to press against the farthest wall.
The abstract idea of fire's danger became very real as flames touched my skin. Pain beyond anything I could understand, beyond words, beyond anything I'd ever felt before.
The terrible truth became perfectly clear despite my oxygen-starved brain: I was experiencing my own body being consumed by fire, becoming a demonstration of how fire works rather than a child who deserved protection and compassion.
When my skin started to burn across my right side, neck, and face, the pain went beyond what my eight-year-old mind could process. My nervous system overloaded with input it couldn't handle, creating a strange state where part of me seemed to float above, watching my own destruction from a distance.
My screams got weaker as the smoke-filled room ran out of oxygen, my voice failing along with my consciousness as my body approached shutdown. The strange mercy of biology kicked in, consciousness flickering like a bad lightbulb, darkness offering brief escapes from the unbearable pain before awareness returned with fresh agony.
The fire ate through the closet door with growing hunger, the fancy woods providing excellent fuel for the spreading fire while the remaining structure briefly protected me from complete burning.
The terrible choice presented itself: if rescue came,surviving meant enduring unimaginable pain; if no rescue came, the pain would end with my life.
My consciousness split under this impossible burden. Part wanted the release of death while another fought with primal determination beyond conscious choice.
The last thing I sensed before darkness took me completely came as if in a dream. New voices calling my name with real urgency instead of clinical detachment, the closet door being broken open, a shape reaching through flames to pull me into air that burned my scorched lungs with each desperate breath.
Through pain-blurred vision, I recognized Harrison Blackwood's profile as Dad's financial advisor lifted my broken body from the fire, his suit jacket wrapped around my burning form to put out the flames.
“I've got you, son,” Harrison said, his voice breaking with what seemed like real anguish. “Hold on.”
Even as my saviour carried me from the burning house, my broken mind recorded every detail, planting the seed of vengeance alongside gratitude for rescue, the complicated emotional foundation for the damaged man I would become.
1
BLOOD TRIBUTE
ADRIAN
Iwatched as Dominic forced the kneeling man's head back, exposing his throat. Thomas Wilson trembled before me, snot and tears mixing with the blood on his swollen face. The warehouse's concrete floor bore dark stains from previous judgments, a record of betrayals written in iron and salt.
The metal rafters above us creaked, the only sound besides Thomas's pathetic whimpering. Moonlight sliced through the high windows, casting long shadows across the execution space. I inhaled the familiar scents of rust, fear, and gunpowder that forever lingered here, drawing them deep into my lungs like an old comfort.
“Please, Mr. Calloway, I have children,” Thomas begged, his voice cracking. “Three little ones. They need their father.”
I adjusted my Italian leather gloves, feeling the tight pull of scarred skin beneath the right one. The flames had claimed that side of my face and body twenty-four years ago, leaving a map of pain etched permanently into my flesh. My face remained expressionless as I studied the pathetic display before me.Dominic's grip tightened on Thomas's hair, causing him to release a small, animal-like whine.
“So did the men who died when you gave Vega our shipment route,” I replied, my voice soft yet carrying throughout the silent warehouse. Every man present strained to hear my words, knowing they carried the weight of unimpeachable law. “Jeffries had two boys. Michaels had a newborn daughter he'll never see walk. Your children will receive financial support until they're eighteen. More consideration than you showed our fallen.”
Thomas sobbed harder, his chest heaving with the effort. I stepped closer, close enough to smell the acrid stench of his terror-sweat and the whiskey he'd consumed earlier in a failed attempt at courage.
“I didn't know they would kill anyone,” he whispered. “Roberto promised they'd just steal the merchandise. No bloodshed.”
A lie. In our world, promises meant nothing without power to enforce them. Thomas had known exactly what would happen when he sold our route information. He had merely hoped the Vegas would protect him afterward. Another miscalculation in a life full of fatal errors.
Dominic offered me the ceremonial raven-handled knife, its blade gleaming hungrily in the dim light. I preferred this method for traitors—personal, intimate, requiring me to feel the life drain away. A reminder that betrayal is paid in blood, not bullets. The handle fit my palm perfectly, as familiar as a lover's touch.
“The Calloway family has built its reputation on two principles, Thomas,” I said, running my thumb along the flat of the blade. “We protect our own. And we punish those who betray us.”
“I'm sorry,” he sobbed, all dignity gone now. “I'll make itright. I'll tell you everything about Vega's operation. Please, just let me?—”
I moved forward in one fluid motion, the knife finding its target with practiced ease. Thomas's final gasp bubbled red as I stepped back, avoiding the arterial spray with long-practiced skill. His eyes went wide with shock, then vacant, the life draining from them as his body slumped forward.
