Vera

For a heartbeat, time stopped.

The rain, the fire, the thunder — all of it faded until there was only that one image burned into my mind: Don Bellanti Sr., standing in the downpour, his gun pointed at his own son.

Smoke and rain wove around him like shadows of ghosts. His expression was calm — too calm — the kind of stillness that came before destruction.

“Father,” Nicolas rasped, staggering to his knees. “Put the gun down.”

Don Bellanti’s hand didn’t waver. “You should ...