Father vengeance

The air in my office, usually thick with the scent of cheap coffee and desperation, had taken on a new, acrid tang. It was the smell of fear, a scent I’d become intimately familiar with, and one that now clung to Jacob Woodville like a cheap suit. He sat across from me, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white, his eyes darting around the room as if expecting the walls to close in. He’d confessed to the classroom massacre with a chilling detachment, a detached sort of sorrow that felt more like a performance than genuine remorse. But he’d also confessed to another, more immediate problem: he’d killed Don Corleone’s son.

“He was… he was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Jacob stammered, his voice a reedy whisper. “It was a mistake. A terrible mistake. I didn’t mean to.”

I leaned back in my chair, the worn leather groaning in protest. “Mistakes, Jacob, tend to have consequences. Especially when they involve the heir to the Corleone empire.” I let the silence stretch, watching him squirm. He was a snake, I knew that. A cornered snake, but a snake nonetheless. And cornered snakes were dangerous.