CHAPTER 155: SACRIFICE ( LUCREZIA’S POV )

They were lined up before me like spoiled produce — the kind you don’t dare to touch for fear the rot might cling.

Men.

Worse: omegas.

Shivering, wide-eyed, stomachs clenched with either terror or shame. Maybe both. Their trembling hands reeked of sweat and pheromones that made the air smell like regret.

I didn’t wrinkle my nose.

I didn’t need to. That would mean acknowledging they had an effect on me.

They didn’t. They never did.

The room was silent, heavy with expectation.

There were six of them.

Six wastes of biology — all innocent, uninvolved in what should have been my moment of triumph.

They should blame Emiliano Sanchez for what was about to happen.

He had torn a hole in my carefully stitched plans, and the blood was now pooling at my feet.

Where did he even get the files? The omega? When did he plan the story?

I had him locked up.

He only had freedom for four hours.

So how? How did the brat manage to ruin everything?

I reached for my wine.

It was red. Naturally. The only thing in this room that had earned the right to bleed.

The stem of the glass rested lightly between my fingers. I sat with my legs crossed, back straight, posture regal. It is important to look beautiful when you’re surrounded by failure. It is more important to remain untouched by it.

I wasn’t going to lay a hand on them.

That would suggest they mattered.

So I let someone else do it.

Everyone has their own ways to relieve stress after all.

The nobody — I hadn’t even bothered to learn his name — stepped forward on cue.

Not attractive. Not particularly intelligent.

But loyal and brutish, with arms like tree trunks and the dull gleam of obedience in his eyes. That’s what mattered.

He didn’t ask questions. He never had.

The first omega flinched before the blow even landed. The sound echoed — a sharp crack, like wet cloth being torn in half.

He hit the ground with a muffled grunt, body curling in on itself as if trying to hide the shame that was already seeping into the floor beneath him.

Pathetic

.

Mark Begniffelo was beside me, seated in silence, legs splayed comfortably, arms resting along the back of the couch like a man who had never feared judgment.

He watched them without emotion.

His face didn’t change.

He looked at the scene unfolding before us like it was a painting in a gallery — something abstract, possibly overpriced.

That was what I liked about Mark.

He never lied to himself. He didn’t pretend to be righteous. He understood the order of things, and he knew better than to flinch when the weak screamed.

The second one tried to speak, mouthing some protest or plea, his voice swallowed by the wet thud of a boot in his stomach.

He crumpled beside the first, moaning softly.

Not a real sound.

More like a dying animal.

The nobody was methodical — dull-eyed and effective.

I took another sip of wine. Its bitterness clung to my tongue like a secret.

Third. Fourth. Fifth.

They didn’t resist.

Of course they didn’t.

Resistance requires dignity, and they had none. They huddled and whimpered, tried to crawl away, their backs slick with sweat and blood.

One of them soiled himself. That one I didn’t look at again.

The sixth tried to run.

Ah.

There it was.

The smallest flicker of defiance.

He surged forward with no direction, no strength in his legs, just the dumb instinct to escape — like a wounded dog mistaking the end of the leash for freedom. His bare feet slapped against the tile, slipping slightly on the mess his predecessors had left behind.

The nobody caught him before he reached the door.

It wasn’t a chase.

It wasn’t even a pursuit.

It was a reach and a pull — a practiced snatch of flailing limbs and startled breath. He collapsed with a grunt, arms flapping like a fish dumped on a boat deck.

The brute raised his fist. Again.

I stood.

He saw me in the corner of his eye and paused.

Still silent.

Still disciplined.

I pointed, not at the boy, but downward. One subtle gesture. A quiet condemnation. Lower him.

The brute obeyed.

Without a word, he gripped the omega by the jaw and pressed down, slow and controlled, until the boy’s knees hit the floor. His hands flailed for something solid — anything — but the only thing he found was the cold surface beneath him. He knelt with his head bowed, like some misplaced supplicant in a temple that did not want him.

Perfect.

My steps echoed as I walked across the room. The air around me shifted. The scent of blood, sweat, and fear didn’t cling — it parted for me. I made the world adjust to my presence, never the other way around.

The gold-handled club waited by the far wall, polished and pristine, untouched by the filth around it.

It had been a gift from a minister.

A desperate one, years ago. Men always offered something when they were about to lose. I never refused. I just waited to see how their offerings could be turned into weapons.

The club felt good in my hand.

Balanced.

Designed for elegance, not violence.

And yet... they always forget that anything can become a weapon in the right grip.

I returned to the boy slowly, dragging the quiet weight of authority behind me.

The brute had his hand buried in the omega’s hair, pulling his head up just enough to expose his neck, his jawline, the curve of vulnerability that always came with that particular biology.

The boy was shaking.

His mouth opened and closed with little, useless gasps. He looked up — not at me, but at the ceiling.

There was no God for him there.

Only consequence of a stranger’s actions.

I didn’t speak.

I didn’t warn him.

He wasn’t worth the air.

With one step to the side for distance, I raised the club. The swing wasn’t wild. It wasn’t desperate.

It was measured.

Controlled.

The motion of someone who doesn’t feel hate or fury — just disappointment and necessity.

The gold head connected with a sickening crack against the side of his skull.

His body folded instantly.

His mouth twitched, eyes rolling back, hands twitching like dead leaves in wind.

And I exhaled once.

Satisfied.

"Can we talk business now?", asked Mark.

"What do we do now? He ruined your reputation!"

Claus said from across the room, trying his best not to look at the bloody mess in the middle.

"Oh, honey, reputations are not that easy to destroy"

I am Lucrezia Akna.

I cross my legs. Slowly. Clean lines. My coat is Max Mara—cashmere, ivory, rare. The kind of thing that makes people think twice before disagreeing with me. I like that.

I’m thinking of Emiliano.

The stunt he pulled on TV was a headache.

I can almost hear his laughter. That low, confident, amused sort of sound only people who are dangerous and know it can pull off. No threats, no begging, just that laugh.

He thinks he has the upper hand. He thinks he can dance with me in the dark and lead.

Brat.

The worst part is... he might.

He’s not one of those steroid-filled street tyrants, trying to build an empire out of scraps and gunpowder. He’s methodical. Controlled. He’s got money, bloodlines, cruelty. The dangerous kind—the elegant kind.

He’s crawled up the food chain. He already owns a chunk of it.

And that makes things... interesting.

People trust me because I look like money and sound like medicine. I heal them, poison them, and get thank-you notes either way. I can stand on a podium with a ribbon and be worshipped by people who can’t afford lunch.

Emiliano? They don’t worship him. They fear him. He’s the story whispered in panic rooms. I’m the icon printed on the pill bottle they hide under their mattress.

Image is everything and years and years of being the face of the best medicine in the country is worth more than an omega with a sob story.

I finish the wine. Still too warm. I hand the glass off without looking at whoever’s reaching for it.

Emiliano’s not a bug I can crush under a heel. He’s the kind of threat you study before you strike. The kind that, if you don’t move fast enough, might actually strike first.

Let him laugh.

Let him collect his monsters, run his labs, break the law like it owes him money.

But I’ll win.

Because while he’s building an empire in the dark, I already bought the spotlight.

"What’s next?"

Mark was tapping on his whiskey glass calmly.

"Tom is gone", he continued." Your image has taken a hit and now we’re a step closer to being exposed."

"No. The peasants just need a bit of entertainment. Who do you not question no matter the subject?"

Mark arched a brow, smiling.

I dusted my dress. My voice echoed nonchalantly throughout the warehouse, making Claus gulp loudly:

"A grieving family."

"A loss of pregnancy could destroy your brand reputation even more."

"Well, my dear Mark, I would agree with you, but think about the big picture: pregnant wife of the CEO of Akna Pharmaceuticals loses the baby as a repercussion of false rumor and documents forgery. We will also intend a lawsuit and discredit the omega Emiliano used. I doubt he can be bought."

"So you’ll kill Damian’s baby?"

"The plan needs its sacrifices."