“My mother, Lina…” My voice catches. “She was beautiful. The kind of beauty that made people stop and stare. Ano paraded us around like prizes—his gorgeous wife, his precocious daughter. We were living proof of his success.”
“When did you first suspect?” Remy’s question is gentle, but it still makes me flinch.
“I was fifteen.” The memory rises sharp and clear. “Found documents in his study—contracts disguised as business deals. Then, I started noticing things. How my mother would shake before certain dinner parties. The way some of his associates looked at her. How she’d disappear for hours with them while Ano made excuses.”
“Eve—”
“He was lending her out.” The words explode from me. “His own wife passed around like a party favor to seal deals and curry favor. And she had no choice. He made sure of that.”
Remy moves closer but doesn’t touch me. “Did she ever tell you?”
“She didn’t have to.” My hands tremble. “I saw the bruises she tried to hide. Heard her crying at night. Ano called it ‘being a good wife’—doing whatever was necessary for the family’s success.”
“A week before she died, I found her packing a small bag.” My voice wavers, but I force myself to continue. “She’d finally gathered the courage to leave. Had everything planned—money hidden away, a contact in Montreal who’d help her disappear.” The memory constricts my chest. “I begged her to take me with her.”
Remy’s expression darkens. “But Ano found out.”
“No.” Bitter laughter escapes me. “I did this. I thought I was being careful, covering our tracks. But I was fifteen, naive.” My fingers dig into my palms. “Ano’s security chief caught me researching bus schedules to Montreal. Within hours…”
“Eve—”
“Do you know what it’s like?” I cut him off, my voice rising. “To come home and find your mother hanging from the chandelier? To see her beautiful face…” I choke on the words.
Remy remains silent, but I see the muscle working in his jaw.
“The police arrived so quickly. Everything was perfectly orchestrated—the timeline, the suicide note in her handwriting.” My laugh sounds hysterical. “Ano even had her therapist’s records already prepared, documenting months of depression.”
“He forced you to corroborate the story.”
“Oh, he was brilliant.” The words taste like poison. “Gathered the household staff, tears in his eyes, as he explained how my ‘fragile’ mother had been struggling for years. How he’d ‘tried everything’ to help her.” My voice cracks. “And there I stood, watching him weave this perfect lie. The devoted husband, the grieving widower.”
“The media bought it?”
“They devoured it. ‘Tragic Death of Socialite Lina Montoni.’ They painted her as this troubled, unstable woman who couldn’t handle the pressures of high society.” My fists clench. “Ano gave tearful interviews about her ‘battle with depression.’ Even had fake prescription bottles planted in her bathroom.”
“And you couldn’t say anything.”
“What was I going to do? Tell them my father murdered her because she tried to escape?” I meet Remy’s gaze, letting him see the raw pain there. “I was fifteen, terrified, and alone. He made sure I understood the consequences of speaking out.”
“How?”
“The night after her funeral, he called me into his study. Showed me photos—surveillance of everyone I cared about. My best friend’s family, my favorite teacher, even our old housekeeper.” I swallow hard. “He said accidents happen all the time. Just like poor, troubled Lina.”
The kitchen falls silent as my last words hang in the air. My throat burns from unleashing years of buried truth, and I can’t bring myself to look at Remy. His arms encircle me from behind, solid and unexpectedly gentle. The gesture should make me bristle—I hate appearing weak, especially in front of him—but something in his touch speaks of understanding rather than pity.
“That’s why you became a journalist.” It’s not a question.
“I promised myself I’d expose men like him. Men who treat people like property.” I meet his gaze. “But I never imagined he’d actually put a price on my head.”
“Consoli,” he murmurs against my hair. “Your mother’s name.”
“Yes.” My voice comes out raw. “I couldn’t… I wouldn’t use his name. Not after what he did to her.”
His embrace tightens fractionally. “You’ve been fighting this war alone for a long time.”
“It’s not just about revenge.” I turn in his arms, needing him to understand. “Every time I expose corruption, every time I shine a light on the monsters hiding in plain sight… I see her. I see all the Linas out there, trapped by powerful men who think they own the world.”
Something fierce flashes in Remy’s eyes. Not the calculated look I’m used to, but something deeper, more primal. His hand cups my face, thumb brushing away tears I hadn’t realized were falling.
