Devil in the disguise
"Dad, are we going to die?"
"No, sweetie. We’ll be alright."
Surrounded by armed men, I clenched my daughter's hand, my heart pounding as their guns pointed directly at her. I closed my eyes, whispering a silent prayer.
Then—a gunshot.
My eyes snapped open. One of the men collapsed onto the pavement, lifeless.
Through the thick smoke rising from our burning car, a figure emerged. My breath caught. It was my son.
Without hesitation, he tore through the attackers, his blows ruthless, his movements a blur of deadly precision. Blood splattered the ground as he dismantled them, one by one.
Then, headlights cut through the chaos. A sleek black car pulled up, and from its shadow stepped two men. My blood ran cold. They weren’t just anyone. They were the right-hand men of the Devil—the most feared mafia lord alive.
Yet, they stood behind my son, watching in silence.
As he delivered the final blow, my son straightened, his face drenched in blood. He tilted his head toward the dark sky, inhaling deeply before murmuring:
"The time has come, hasn’t it?"
