The Castellano family dining room smelled like money and blood.
Well, not blood yet. That would come later. For now, just money—the kind that came from selling poison to desperate people, from killing anyone who looked at you wrong, from building an empire on corpses and broken families.
Billy Smoke sat at the head of the imported Italian marble table, methodically working through what remained of their dinner. Osso buco. The meat fell off the bone perfectly, the risotto was creamy without being heavy, and the wine—some Barolo he'd pulled from their collection—complemented it beautifully.
He took another slowl, savoring bite.
Across from him, Marcus "The Viper" Castellano watched with tears streaming down his face, gagged with duct tape. Black chains wrapped around his wrists—not regular chains. These were supernatural. Hellfire-forged. They writhed with symbols that seemed to shift when you looked directly at them, humming with a frequency that made human teeth ache.
The Viper's wife Sofia sat to his right, similarly bound. Mascara running in dark rivers. Her designer dress—probably cost more than most people made in a month—was soaked through with diesel fuel.
The daughters sat on the left. Isabella, sixteen, hadn't stopped shaking. The chains around her wrists were tight enough to hurt but not damage.
And then there was Melissa.
Eight years old. Same age Billy had been in that alley nine years ago.
She sat perfectly still in her chair, small hands bound in front of her with chains that seemed almost gentle. Her purple princess dress—the kind with sparkles that made little girls feel special—was drenched in diesel fuel. It darkened the fabric, made it cling, dripped onto the marble floor in a slowly expanding pool.
Her brown eyes watched Billy with the kind of stillness that came from shock so profound the body just stopped processing.
All of them were soaked in diesel. The whole family. Billy had been very thorough.
He finished the osso buco, set down his fork with a soft *clink*, and dabbed his mouth with the cloth napkin. Manners mattered, Eva always said. Even—especially—in moments like this.
*Are you having second thoughts?* Eva's voice said in his mind.
Billy considered the question. Searched through the gray space where emotions used to live.
"No," he said finally.
He stood. His sneakers made soft sounds on the marble as he walked around the table, hands in his hoodie pockets. Rain dripped from the fabric—he hadn't bothered shaking it off when he'd broken in.
The Viper's eyes followed him. Wide. White-rimmed with terror.
Billy stopped in front of Melissa.
Crouched down slowly, balancing on the balls of his feet. His voice, when he spoke, was conversational. Almost gentle.
"Do you know what the seven deadly sins are, Melissa?"
She couldn't answer. The duct tape prevented it. But her eyes—those huge brown eyes—fixed on his face with terrible focus.
"Pride. Greed. Lust. Envy. Gluttony. Sloth." Billy tilted his head slightly. "And Wrath. That's the one we're here for tonight. Wrath."
Behind him, Castellano thrashed against his restraints. The chains rattled but didn't give. They never gave.
The chair scraped against marble. Isabella sobbed behind her gag. Sofia's breathing came in sharp, panicked gasps.
Billy didn't turn around.
"Wrath isn't just anger," he continued, still in that calm, teaching tone. "It's more specific than that. It's anger acted upon. Anger that demands satisfaction. Anger that burns so hot it consumes everything around it." He paused. "Anger that doesn't care about collateral damage."
Melissa's eyes never left his.
"Nine years ago, your father killed my parents."
The words came out flat. Empty.
"I was eight. Same age as you." Billy's gaze dropped briefly to her princess dress. "We were walking home from a movie. Dad had bought me a Happy Meal—some stupid plastic toy I don't even remember anymore. Mom was laughing about something."
He snapped his fingers.
The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot. Sofia flinched. Isabella's sobbing intensified.
"Bang. Bang." Billy made gun gestures with his fingers. "Just like that. They fell down, and I stood there in the rain, and I counted." His voice never changed pitch. "Six minutes until someone called for help. Six minutes of watching them bleed out in an alley over nothing. Over territory. Over business."
Castellano was making sounds behind the gag. Desperate. Pleading.
Billy stood. Walked to where the Viper sat trembling.
"Your father took everything from me." He looked down at the man. "My family. My childhood. My ability to feel anything except this." He gestured vaguely at himself.
Billy reached down and ripped the duct tape off. Roughly.
Castellano gasped. "Please! *Please*, God, please—my family didn't do anything! They're innocent! You want revenge, fine, FINE, take me! Kill me! But let them go—"
"Did you know there was a kid with them?" Billy interrupted.
"What? No, I don't—"
"When you ordered the hit. On my parents. Did you know there was a kid with them?"
Castellano's mouth opened. Closed. Then:
"...Yes." The word came out broken. "Yes, I knew. But I didn't think—the shooters weren't supposed to—it was supposed to be clean—"
"Clean." Billy tasted the word. "You knew there was an eight-year-old kid, and you sent shooters anyway. Because we were just collateral damage. Just business." He pulled out a book of matches from his pocket. "Nothing personal."
He struck one. It flared to life.
"So this?" Billy gestured around the room. "This isn't personal either, Marcus. It's just business."
"NO!" Castellano screamed. "No no no, please! Take anything! Everything! The house, the money, the business—it's all yours! Just don't hurt them! PLEASE!"
The match was burning down toward Billy's fingers.
"You're right about one thing," Billy said, watching the flame. "Wrath doesn't care about fair. It doesn't care about proportional response." His eyes lifted to meet Castellano's. "It just burns."
"I'M SORRY!" The Viper's voice broke. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry—God, please, they're innocent! My girls didn't do anything! Melissa is eight! EIGHT! The same age—please, please don't do this—"
Billy walked back to Melissa. Crouched down again. Looked into those wide brown eyes.
For just a second—less than a second—something flickered in his chest. An echo of something that used to be there.
The flicker died.
"Your father," Billy said softly, "took everything from me. And now I'm going to show him what that feels like."
He stood. Turned to face Castellano.
"You wanted to beg? My dad begged too. I heard him. 'Please, we have a kid, please.' They shot him anyway."
The match was almost to his fingers.
"So here's what's going to happen, Marcus. I'm going to throw this match. And you're going to sit there, unable to move, unable to help, and you're going to watch them burn. Just like I watched."
"Please..." Castellano was crying so hard he could barely breathe. "Please... I have money... connections... anything..."
"You don't have anything I want." Billy looked at the match. "Except your suffering."
He flicked it toward the diesel pooling on the floor.
The world ignited.
Diesel didn't explode like gasoline. But it burned. The flames spread across the floor in a rippling wave, climbing up the chairs, the table, the drapes. The chandelier's crystal caught the light and scattered it into shards of orange and red.
The screaming intensified. Became something primal.
Billy walked toward the door. Behind him, fire consumed the Castellano family dining room. The heat pressed against his back. The smell of burning diesel mixed with something worse.
He didn't look back.
______
The mansion's grounds were decorated with bodies.
Billy had been thorough with the security team. Bodyguards lay scattered across the manicured lawn and imported stone pathways—some burned beyond recognition, others with gaping holes punched through their torsos where the hellfire chains had torn through. A few were missing limbs. One near the fountain was missing his head entirely, the neck ending in a cauterized stump that still smoked faintly in the night air.
The smell was thick. Burnt meat and diesel and something chemical from the hellfire.
Billy walked through the carnage without looking down. His sneakers squelched on grass wet with rain and other things. Orange light from the burning mansion painted everything in flickering shadows.
Behind him, the screaming from the dining room had stopped.
The front gate stood open—he'd blown the lock on his way in. Beyond it, the street stretched empty and dark. Residential area. The kind where people minded their own business and didn't look too closely at their neighbors' affairs.
The kind where Marcus Castellano could build his empire in peace.
Billy stepped through the gate and onto the sidewalk.
The sirens were closer now. Maybe two minutes out. Fire trucks, probably. Maybe police. Didn't matter—he'd be gone before they arrived.
He started walking. Hands in his hoodie pockets. Rain had started again, light drizzle that caught the streetlights and turned them into halos of yellow-white.
A dog barked somewhere.
Normal life. Continuing like nothing had happened.
Now that you've taken your revenge on them, how do you feel? Eva asked in his head.
Billy considered the question. Searched through the gray emptiness where emotions used to live.
Sixteen people dead. Five of them a family, bound and burned alive in their dining room. Eleven bodyguards scattered across the lawn like broken toys.
All because nine years ago, an eight-year-old boy stood in an alley counting minutes.
"I don't know," he said quietly, still walking. The street stretched ahead of him, empty and dark. "I just know that the person who said revenge tastes sweet,...
...lied."