Too Late To Beg: The Scapegoat's Revenge

upts before I c

or an outlet for his rage, charges a

his son. His eyes

he screams, spittle

is hands raised in a futile gesture of

sickening crack, using enough force

efully composed mask sli

r his shoulder, but a fist tangles in my h

a terrifying shade of purpl

unch

des inside

c tang of copper. My visio

g my footing and hitting

e Capo bellows, driving

ping for air as agony r

ho have known me since I was a

ait

ho

ll

just need a sacrifice to cle

legs and the haze of p

r, who is stroking his arm,

oking ri

is sm

ho thinks he got away with it. He believes I am nothing but co

he final severi

e girl who loved him dissolves in

my split lip, my resol

ot from fear, but f

my fingers frantically sea

. But they didn't check for the burner phone I sew

itching and

overs over

!" I

th blood, but it cuts thro

ot hovering inches from

" I scream, st

ing by the Don, raises

itates, his

is voice cracking and rising an

he phone up high, the screen glow

directly to the Don. "If I'm lying, you can kill me slow

silence. The Don studies me

he nod

s the phone from my hand, and plug

k at

ile is

t," I w