Dead Men Don't Owe Debts
392 Views · Ongoing · Fuzzy Melissa
I survived 100 underground death matches just to keep my brother alive.
My reward? A rusted coffee can holding his ashes.
When I knelt in the pouring rain, desperately scraping his ash out of the black mud, Cassian—the mafia boss I'd bled for ten years—kicked the can away.
He pulled a gun and pressed it to my head. All because his innocent fiancée felt "scared" by my look.
"Apologize to her," he commanded.
Looking at the gun I had engraved with his name years ago, I didn't cry. I didn't beg. I just laughed.
Clutching the battered, empty tin can to my chest, I turned and stepped off the cliff into the raging Black Sea.
Only then did the great Cassian panic, his desperate screams swallowed by the dark waves.
My reward? A rusted coffee can holding his ashes.
When I knelt in the pouring rain, desperately scraping his ash out of the black mud, Cassian—the mafia boss I'd bled for ten years—kicked the can away.
He pulled a gun and pressed it to my head. All because his innocent fiancée felt "scared" by my look.
"Apologize to her," he commanded.
Looking at the gun I had engraved with his name years ago, I didn't cry. I didn't beg. I just laughed.
Clutching the battered, empty tin can to my chest, I turned and stepped off the cliff into the raging Black Sea.
Only then did the great Cassian panic, his desperate screams swallowed by the dark waves.

















































