Killing My Father-in-law for Justice

The streets of Scotland were slick with rain, the faint glow of streetlamps reflecting off cobblestones. My footsteps echoed softly as I walked, head low, my black hood pulled tight, mask concealing half my face.

The night was cold, biting at my fingers, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. Not tonight.

Ahead, a familiar figure came into view, standing under a flickering lamppost.

Victor Salvani.

The sight of him made my stomach churn, though not in fear, never in fear. It was loathing, pure and unfiltered. He stood there, laughing into his phone, his voice a grating mix of arrogance and condescension. I slowed my pace, my pulse quickening. His words were garbled, but his tone, the tone of a man who thought himself untouchable—was unmistakable.

I didn’t think twice as I approached him, each step deliberate. He noticed me when I was a few feet away, his conversation cutting off mid-sentence.

"Who’s—" His eyes widened as I pulled something from my pocket.

"Wait," he stammered, his hands trembling as he raised them. "Please, let’s talk about this. Whatever you—"

A loud crack split the air. It echoed down the street, scattering the quiet like shards of glass.

I didn’t stay to watch him crumple, though I caught a glimpse—his body folding to the ground, lifeless. The phone slipped from his hand, its screen flickering faintly as it landed beside him.

I turned and walked away, my breath coming in steady bursts, each step taking me farther from the scene.

The funeral was a spectacle, as I’d expected. Victor Salvani, the untouchable CEO, now a man of marble and silk in his gilded casket. His family gathered around, their tears flowing freely, though I couldn’t tell if it was grief or fear for their own futures.

I stood at the back of the crowd, arms crossed, hidden behind dark sunglasses and a simple black dress. It wasn’t hard to blend in with mourners, everyone looked the same when grief clouded their features.

My gaze found Marco, my husband—or at least he was still that, for now.

He stood near the casket, his head bowed, shoulders hunched. He looked like a man who had lost not just a father, but a piece of himself.

I felt no sympathy. Marco was Victor’s son, through and through, a man who had inherited his father’s ambition and ruthlessness. Whatever love I had once felt for him had evaporated the day I learned the truth about his family. Divorce was inevitable, though I hadn’t yet told him.

As the priest droned on, I clutched the roses in my hand, their thorns pricking my palm. I stepped forward when the time came, my heels clicking softly against the marble floor.

Standing over Victor’s casket, I felt a rush of satisfaction.

"Rest in hell, Victor," I murmured, just loud enough for myself. I dropped the rose onto the polished lid and turned away.

The notification buzzed as I sat in the corner of the funeral hall, pretending to sip at a glass of champagne. My fingers trembled slightly as I unlocked my phone, the screen lighting up with a video.

I froze.

The footage was shaky, captured from a nearby building. It showed Victor on the street, laughing into his phone. A figure approached him—hooded, masked was me.

The video cut off just before the act, but not before a fleeting glimpse of my face, partially visible beneath the hood.

My chest tightened. I locked my phone, slipping it back into my pocket, and forced myself to breathe.

No one seemed to notice me. The mourners were too consumed with their grief to pay attention to someone in the corner. But the video was out there now, spreading like wildfire.

I clenched my hands into fists, nails digging into my palms.

If anyone recognized me…

"Hey, you okay?"

I flinched, turning to see one of Marco’s friends, a woman I also despise—eyeing me curiously.

"I’m fine. Just overwhelmed," I said, forcing a small smile.

She nodded sympathetically, then turned back to her group. I let out a slow breath, relief mingling with unease.

Later, the whispers reached me.

"Did you see the video?" one man murmured to his companion near the bar.

"Of course," the other replied, his tone low but excited. "Can’t say I blame them, though. Victor wasn’t exactly a saint."

"That’s an understatement," someone else chimed in. "Insurance scams, bankrupting families. The man was a devil in a suit."

I lingered nearby, pretending to look for something. My heart, which had been racing moments ago, began to slow.

The public wasn’t condemning the act—they were applauding it.

A small, involuntary smile crept onto my lips. For years, Victor Salvani had hidden behind wealth and power, immune to consequences.

Now, even in death, his sins were laid bare for the world to see. I straightened, glancing around the room. No one here suspected me. They were too wrapped up in their own dramas, their own grief, to notice the assassin among them.

For the first time since that night, I felt a flicker of peace. As the night wore on and the crowd thinned, I stepped out into the cool air, the weight on my shoulders lifting.

Victor Salvani was gone, and no one—not even Marco—would ever know the truth.