Chapter 36: The Devil’s Son

The confrontation with his father wasn't just about fists and bullets. It was a battle of minds, of past wounds festering into weapons sharper than any blade. The moment Alexander stepped into the room, his father smiled, the same smug, condescending smirk that had haunted his nightmares for years.

"Look at you," his father mused, swirling a glass of whiskey in his hand, unfazed by the blood that trailed in Alexander's wake. "The prodigal son returns. Tell me, does it feel good to crawl back into the hell you ran from?"

Alexander didn't speak. He didn't need to. The rage simmering beneath his skin was louder than any words could ever be.

His father sighed, placing the glass down. "You were never strong enough, Alexander. Not like your brother. You ran instead of ruling. But perhaps I was too harsh. Maybe, just maybe, there's still a place for you in this family."

Alexander let out a low, humorless laugh. "You don't want me back. You just don't want to admit you failed to kill me."

His father's expression darkened. "A mistake I won't make twice."

A gun cocked. But not his father's.

Alexander moved first, a blur of motion as the fight erupted. His father had always ruled with power, but Alexander had spent his years in exile honing a different skill—the art of survival. He fought like a man with nothing to lose, like a beast with its back against the wall. Every blow was a lifetime of pain released, every strike a memory of betrayal carved into flesh and bone.

"You spent your life trying to break me. But all you did was sharpen the blade you should have never forged."