Su pistola había sido golpeada de su mano, descansando a diez pies de distancia en una pila de fragmentos de cristal afilados.
He looked up at me as I walked slowly across the ruined marble floor, my shoes crunching on the glass.
I stopped two feet from him.
I pointed the barrel of my gun directly at the center of his forehead—at the identical spot where he had shot my father twenty years ago.
Adrian panted heavily, coughing up blood, but his eyes still burned with arrogance.
“Do it,” he spat, spitting blood onto my shoe.
“Kill me, Lorenzo.
Prove you’re just like us.
Prove you’re a murderer just like your father, just like me.”
I stared down at the man who had haunted my family for two decades, who had forced my mother into hiding, who had turned my home into a house of whispers and terror.
Apreté el gatillo ligeramente, sintiendo la tensión del alfiler de disparo.
“Lorenzo…” la voz de mi madre resonó en mi memoria. “Nunca dejes que el odio gobierne tu mano. Un rey mata por la justicia, no por venganza”.
Bajaba lentamente el arma.
Adrian parpadeó, una sonrisa burlona tocando sus labios.
