Sweet Hatred Chapter 262: Torture

My father... if he was even still capable of speech... coughed out sothing wet and broken.

"I’m sorry..." he croaked. "Spare them. Please..."

The boss barked out a laugh. That empty, theatrical kind that made your skin crawl.

"Sparing them?" he repeated, lifting a brow. "You think that’s punishnt? No, no. I want you to suffer."

Then he turned and looked at . "I want to kill them... one by one. While you watch."

My heart slamd into my throat.

No.

I couldn’t just stand there.

I had to do sothing.

"I—" I stepped forward, barely able to form words. "Wait. Wait."

I crouched down, handed Kaleb to Michael. "Take him," I whispered. "Keep them close."

Then I looked up at the man and tried... tried to steady my voice.

"H-how much?" I asked. "How much does he owe you?"

The boss turned, eyes slow to land on , and that damn smile curled his lips.

"Ten million dollars," he said.

I froze.

Ten.

Million.

I was fucked.

But before I could say anything, he started toward . Steps slow. Confident. Predatory.

"I know you can’t pay that," he said, voice almost mocking. "But maybe..."

He stopped in front of , eyes dipping down my body like he was peeling back layers.

"We can co to an alternate arrangent. One that doesn’t involve cash."

My stomach lurched.

I didn’t need him to spell it out.

The implication was thick in the air, heavy and rancid.

I didn’t hide the disgust on my face. I wanted him to see it.

But just as he reached for a strand of my hair...

SLAM.

A man burst through the front door, eyes wide and frantic, words spilling fast and sharp in Spanish.

"¡Estamos comprotidos!"

We’ve been compromised!

His body twisted mid-sentence as a bullet slamd into his shoulder, jerking him back with a crack. He dropped instantly.

The next second happened like the end of a world.

A crack shattered the air.

Then another.

And then hell rained down.

Bullets tore through the house like a storm of tal and fire, splintering wood, glass, flesh, everything. I didn’t even think. I lunged forward, grabbing Olivia by the arm and shoving her back down the hallway with Michael and the kids.

"GO!" I shouted, my voice raw, panicked. "FIND ANOTHER WAY OUT!"

"No—Aria—" Olivia’s voice was cracked and desperate, reaching for .

But I wrenched free. "GO! JUST FUCKING GO!"

I turned back.

Back to the room.

Back to him.

Blood already painted the floor in slick, chaotic strokes. At least three of those cartel n lay there, twitching—dying—holes torn in their chests or skulls. The sll of iron hit my nose thickly. The others were crouched low, returning fire in ssy bursts, but most of them were losing.

And in the middle of it all... he was still there.

My father. Sprawled, barely conscious.

And the boss.

Still alive.

Crouched behind the edge of the upturned couch, screaming in Spanish as he hit my father again.

"¡ jodiste! ¡Maldito perro, jodiste!"

(You fucked ! You fucking dog, you fucked !)

And then, it stopped.

Silence.

Like a vacuum sucked the sound from the world.

The gunfire ceased. Smoke floated thick in the air. I took a single step forward.

That was all it took.

He saw .

His head jerked up, blood sared across his face, fury radiating from his every limb.

"You—¡perra!" he barked, stumbling to his feet. "¡Tú llamaste a la policía! Vas a morir, maldita perra—"

(You called the cops! You’re going to die, you fucking bitch!)

He raised his gun.

Too fast.

I turned... frantic, for a weapon. Anything. But I was too slow. His finger was already on the trigger.

This is it, I thought. This is how I die.

But the gun didn’t fire.

A grunt cut the air behind him.

My father.

Sohow, still alive. Still moving.

He grabbed the man from behind, dragging him backward, snarling as they struggled, limbs flailing. The boss turned and fired, the sound deafening, and my father jolted with a horrible sound in his throat as the bullet tore into his gut.

"No—NO!"

But the gun was back on .

I stood there, completely exposed.

No cover. No chance.

He pointed the barrel to my chest. His lips curled.

I didn’t even scream this ti. I just stared. Frozen.

But before he could shoot again,

My father threw himself forward, into .

His weight crashed into my body, knocking the air from my lungs. I fell to the floor, his body pressing down.

And then the bullets ca again.

Each one felt like thunder, slamming into him.

Not .

Him.

I could hear the bullets tearing flesh. Hitting bone. My father shuddered with every hit but didn’t cry out. He just... stayed there. Protecting .

Until he didn’t move anymore.

Until it was quiet again.

I was too stunned to breathe.

Then—

CRACK.

A single shot. So loud it split the mont in half.

The boss jerked. His eyes widened as if in surprise.

A red dot had appeared on the back of his skull. And then the front of his head exploded—spraying the floor—his body dropping with a sick, wet thud.

He was dead.

Just like that.

Gone.

Oh God. The air was filled with the stench of blood and guts. I could barely breathe without my guts threatening to spill from my throat.

I didn’t even see the shooter. I didn’t care. All I could feel,

Was blood. Hot. Wet. Spreading over my skin and soaking into my clothes.

I turned my head slowly. My father had rolled slightly off . And I could see his face.

Eyes barely open.

Chest barely moving. His blood was everywhere and I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t scream. I just lay there. With his blood seeping into my skin. With my lungs frozen. With my heart broken.

Because despite everything... Despite the pain he caused.

Despite the betrayal.

He saved .

He saved .

I barely noticed the blood anymore.

It was everywhere. On my hands. My clothes. My skin. In my mouth, I could even taste it... warm, tallic, bitter like regret.

His eyes were fluttering.

He was still alive.