"Nice try," my dad said over the phone. "But I know a bluff when I hear one."
The man's face changed. Just like that—darker. Meaner.
"You sick fucks wouldn't dare to do this," my dad went on. "You think I don't know how the mafia works? A little staged blood, a little scream, and I'm supposed to fold? Try harder."
The man didn't say a word.
Just breathed out slow. Put the phone down.
Then turned.
I saw him look at her.
My chest hurt. My arms. My legs. Everything was on fire. I couldn't move, couldn't scream anymore. I could barely breathe.
He pulled out a gun.
Took a step.
And held it out to her.
"Kill her."
I froze.
I thought maybe I was hearing things. Maybe the pain was messing with my head. But nobody said anything. Nobody moved.
She blinked, staring at the gun. "What?"
He didn't want to repeat himself. Just kept holding it out. Calm. Cold.
"This isn't a bluff," he said. "Kill her."
She looked at me.
And I hated that. I hated that look. That split second where someone tries to decide if your life is worth anything.
I didn't like that she was thinking about it. I wanted her to tell him to go to hell. But she didn't. Maybe she couldn't.
He pushed the gun closer.
"Do it."
She reached out.
Her hand wrapped around the gun, and I saw the ring on her finger—yellow, shiny, wrong. The light caught it for a second, then disappeared.
She didn't lift the gun yet. But I know she felt it. The cold. The weight.
The way death just waited there in her hand.
And I thought of my mum. Of how she would crying her eyes out wondering where I ended up. How my little brother would look for me. How nobody was going to find me in this place. How I was going to die like this; in a chair, in pain, for something I don't even know about.
Tears came again. I was tired. My body was shutting down, but my brain wouldn't stop.
I didn't know how else to beg.
But I didn't want to die either.
Not like this.