The room was silent.
Not the kind of silence that came with peace. No, this was the kind of silence that made men hold their breath, that made them hesitate before stepping closer.
The kind of silence that came before bloodshed.
Victor sat at his desk, phone still clutched in his hand, his knuckles white from the force of his grip. The video had ended, but the image of Miguel—his son—bound to that chair, his tear-streaked face, his trembling voice asking for his mother—was burned into Victor’s mind.
His jaw clenched so hard it felt like his teeth might c***k.
Then, without warning—
CRASH.
The whiskey bottle that had been sitting untouched on his desk exploded against the far wall, shards of glass scattering across the floor, amber liquid dripping down like blood.
Maria flinched fro
