Pretending to Be an Untouchable Crime Boss-Chapter 44: God’s Answer

Bella had told him to sleep. Said it had been a hard day.

But James couldn’t. Not tonight.

After their conversation, after the hug that lingered a little too long, he pulled away and told her he needed time. Time to sit with his thoughts, to let them settle instead of running from them.

Bella didn’t argue. She just gave him one last look, something between understanding and worry, before nodding. "Don’t stay up too late," she said softly.

James didn’t answer.

Now, he sat in the living room, sinking into the couch, staring at the tv.

Marcello.

The name sat in his chest like a weight that wouldn’t lift.

He hadn’t spoken about him for a long time.Hadn’t let himself think about him for too long, because when he did, it always led back to that day. That room. That gun.

It should’ve been different.

Marcello should’ve had a life beyond the rumors, beyond the name people forced on him. He should’ve been happy. He should’ve been…alive.

James leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing a hand over his face. The regret, the guilt…it never faded. No matter how much time passed. And it never will.

He let out a slow breath, his eyes fixed on the coffee table in front of him.

He closed his eyes, just for a moment, listening to the distant sounds of the city outside.

Maybe Bella was right. Maybe he should try to sleep.

But he knew the moment he tried that, Marcello would be there.

What good was remembering if all he could remember was failure?

He had thought he was giving Marcello a choice…a way out, a chance to live a life without struggle. He thought handing him that check meant something. That Marcello would take it and leave, start fresh, be free.

But Marcello had stayed.

He had stayed because he was James’s friend. Because he didn’t care about the money or the power or any of the things people whispered about James Bellini.

And it destroyed him.

James pressed his fingers against his forehead, trying to push away the thoughts, but they clawed at him, relentless.

They hadn’t killed Marcello with a gun.

They killed him with rumors, with assumptions, with fear.

They killed him by making him something he wasn’t.

And James…James had let it happen.

He could still see Marcello’s face the last time they spoke, the tension in his jaw, the weight in his eyes. He should have seen it then. Should have known.

He let out a bitter laugh, his voice raw, hoarse. He tilted his head back against the couch, eyes burning as he stared up at the ceiling.

"What do you want from me, huh?" He muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

He turned his head, gaze shifting to the window looking at the distant sky.

"Is this it?" he asked, his voice cracking. "This what you wanted for me?"

His hands curled into fists.

"All that struggle, all that pain was it just for this?" He let out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face.

"You took everything from me, mom and Rafael who pretend everyday to be okay with me, and you took Marcello." His jaw clenched, teeth grinding together. "He was a good man. Better than me. So tell me, why?!"

His voice rose, echoing in the empty living room.

"You let him die alone. And I had to stand there, looking at his damn casket, knowing I did that. Knowing that you—" His breath hitched. "That you just watched."

James laughed again, but it was empty, broken.

"You watching now? Are you enjoying this?"

Silence. The world gave him nothing.

Like it always did.

He let out a shaky breath, his fingers gripping the edge of the couch so tightly his knuckles turned white. His eyes stayed locked on the window, on the empty sky beyond it.

His chest rose and fell heavily, his body tense as if he was bracing for some kind of answer, some kind of sign. But there was nothing, just the steady hum of the city, the distant sound of sirens wailing in the night.

"You hear me?" he said, his voice sharper now, filled with something between rage and grief. "Do you hear me?!"

He pushed himself up from the couch, running a hand through his hair, pacing. His heart pounded in his chest.

"All this power, all this control, and I still couldn’t save him." His breath hitched, his throat tightening. "You just let him rot, let him suffer, and for what?"

James swallowed hard, his voice quieter now, almost a whisper.

"You could’ve taken me instead."

His fists clenched.

"I will beat the shit out of you if we ever meet."

He leaned back, closing his eyes, and for the first time in a long time Marcello wasn’t there, only the darkness.

Then a sound. A dull thump outside. Probably one of the guards. Maybe the wind is knocking something over.

He opened his eyes, his vision was foggy then again a sound outside and the motion sensor lamps turned on.

That was weird.

With a quiet sigh, he pushed himself up and stretched, rolling his shoulders as he headed toward the patio. Maybe one of the idiots outside had dropped their gear. Or maybe it was just a stray cat.

As he stepped out, the warm summer night was refreshing, with a slight breeze. But as he looked toward where the sound had come from, his breath hitched.

A man. Just stood there.

James blinked, his brain slow to register the sight. The guy wasn’t moving, wasn’t saying anything, just stared.

"Who are—"

He didn’t hear it…didn’t even realize what had happened at first.

The pain hit a second later, sharp, burning, like a blade tearing through his insides, burrowing deep into his gut. His hand went to his stomach instinctively, pressing against the sudden, unnatural heat spreading there. His fingers came away wet.

Warm. Sticky. Dark.

Blood.

His blood.

For a second, he just stared at it, mind struggling to catch up, to make sense of what was happening. His breath came in short, shallow gasps, heart pounding against his ribs, his body screaming at him to move, to do something, but he was frozen.

Then—

Another shot.

This time, it slammed into his shoulder, ripping through flesh and bone, forcing his body into motion. His feet stumbled backward, his body twisting with the impact, a sharp cry tearing from his throat.

He hit the patio hard, the cold stone sending another jolt of pain through him as he collapsed onto his back.

Everything spun.

The sky above blurred, the stars swimming together in a dizzying mess. His ears rang, his lungs fought for air, but each breath was a struggle, like he was drowning in his own body.

No. No, no, no...

James pressed his hand harder against the wound in his stomach, desperate to stop the bleeding, but it just kept coming, spilling through his fingers, warm and endless. It soaked into his shirt, his skin, pooling beneath him, painting the ground in deep, crimson red.

His fingers trembled. His arms felt weak. His body refused to listen to him.

A cough wracked through him, and something warm and thick bubbled up his throat.

Blood spilled past his lips, staining his teeth, the metallic taste clinging to his tongue. His breath rattled. His chest heaved. His body shuddered violently against the growing cold.

And then—

Footsteps.

Slow. Deliberate.

James’ blurred vision lifted, and through the haze of pain, he saw a figure standing over him. A shadow against the night sky, face unreadable, gun still raised.

He forced his lips to move, but all that came out was a ragged breath.

The man took another step closer.

James’ pulse thudded weakly, his body screaming at him to move, to fight, but he was barely hanging on, his strength slipping away with every drop of blood leaving his body.

No. No, I can’t die here.

His vision swam, his chest heaved for air, and then, in a desperate, broken voice, he forced out a scream.

"Help!"

It was hoarse, weak, but he pushed through the pain, his throat burning as he shouted again.

"Somebody!"

His voice cracked, but he didn’t care. The walls of the house felt so far away, the doors shut, the world silent except for his own ragged breaths.

The man standing over him didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

James’ gaze darted toward the house, toward the windows.

Someone has to hear me. Someone has to come.

But nobody came.

Ma…

Her face flashed in his mind—soft, kind, the way she used to hold his face between her hands when he was younger, smoothing his hair back, whispering words of comfort.

"No. Plea…don’t…hurt her.."

The thought sent a new kind of pain through him, worse than the bullets, worse than the cold creeping into his bones.

James forced his head up, locking his gaze onto the man standing over him. His lips moved, his voice barely above a whisper, wet with blood.

"Please…"

The man tilted his head slightly, but said nothing.

His vision wavered, black spots creeping at the edges, his body barely holding onto consciousness.

The man didn’t respond with words but with the barrel of a gun pressed against James’s head.

He should’ve left. Should’ve run. Should’ve said it was all a misunderstanding. Should’ve said goodbye.

The final shot rang out.

And everything went dark.

"James?"

His eyes snapped open. He was still in the living room. Still on the couch. His body was drenched in sweat, his breath unsteady, his heart pounding like hell.

New n𝙤vel chapters are published on freeweɓnøvel.com.

"Was it a nightmare?"