“You don’t need to worry about Remy’s reputation. I made sure my investigation never included his name or activities.”
“That so?” “Years ago, I kept certain names from my records. People who…” I pause, choosing my words.
“People who operate in necessary shadows.” Declan’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel.
“You’re a strange one, Consoli. Most journalists would kill for that kind of exclusive. The notorious Remy Harding, Chicago’s shadow king, fixer extraordinaire.”
“Glory was never the point.”
“No?” He casts a sideways glance at me. “What about exposure? Recognition?”
“Justice was enough.”
“And you’re just… accepting. Of who he is. What he does.” His tone sharpens. “Did he tell you everything?”
“Yes.” My voice remains steady. “Every dark detail.” The car jerks to a stop at a red light. Declan turns to face me fully, his expression transformed. Gone is the playful banter, replaced by lethal intensity. His eyes hold the cold calculation of a predator.
“Listen carefully.” His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “If you ever use what you know against him, if you hurt him in any way—”
“Don’t,” I cut him off, matching his steel with my own. “You want to threaten me? Fine. But understand something—I judge people by their true nature, not their reputation. Even if that nature is dark as night.”
We lock eyes in the dim car, neither backing down. Then, like a switch being flipped, Declan’s tension evaporates. A genuine smile spreads across his face.
“Well, shit.” He laughs, shaking his head. “That’s exactly what I was hoping you’d say.”
“You tested me.”
“Had to be sure.” He turns back to the wheel as the light changes. “Remy deserves someone who sees him. All of him.”
Declan’s words echo in my mind as streetlights flicker across the car’s interior.Remy deserves someone who sees him.The phrase burrows deep, unearthing memories I’ve been trying to suppress. His face was raw with emotion before he left for my father’s estate as he declared his love. Not a calculated admission, but something torn from his very core.
My fingers trace the bruise on my face, each throb a reminder of the darkness we both operate in. Remy isn’t the only one who dwells in the shadows. I’ve spent years building a network of informants, trading favors, and manipulating situations to expose corruption.
My methods aren’t always clean. How many times have I justified means with ends? The hypocrisy of my earlier moral high ground hits hard. I’ve judged Remy for his control, his manipulation, his comfort with darkness.
Yet, haven’t I manipulated my way through this investigation? Used people’s weaknesses, exploited their fears? My hands aren’t exactly clean.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Declan mutters, turning down a narrow street. I ignore him, lost in the realization of my own complexity. Remy might revel in control, but I’ve orchestrated an entire network of allies and enemies like pieces on a chessboard. We are more alike than I’ve wanted to admit.
His love declaration plays again in my memory.
The raw vulnerability in his eyes was so at odds with his usual calculated demeanor. He’s dropped every defense, knowing it could cost him everything. Not just his life but the carefully constructed walls he’s built around himself. I press my forehead against the cool window, watching Chicago’s shadows deepen. Remy won’t change—can’t change.
His nature is woven into his very being. The control, the darkness, the calculated manipulation of power. But then again, so is mine. I’ve just dressed it up in prettier words: justice, truth, exposure. I close my eyes, feeling the weight of truth settle in my chest.
Can I accept Remy? The real question is: can I accept myself? We are both creatures of shadow and light, manipulation and truth, control and chaos. Perhaps that’s why we fit—two broken pieces creating something whole.
Chapter 29
Pain is the first thing I register—a dull roar spreading across my ribs like wildfire every time I breathe too deep. My shoulder protests when I shift even slightly against the mattress. Everything feels heavy, weighted down by the lingering effects of whatever sedatives they pumped into me after dragging me out of that hellhole. My vision swims as I force my eyes open.
The bedroom comes into focus slowly—sleek lines, muted tones, everything sharp-edged luxury. I recognize the safehouse apartment in which I saw Liv last. The antiseptic tang hanging in the air mixes with the faint metallic bite of dried blood; it turns my stomach in ways I can’t afford to acknowledge.
I drag in a shallow breath through clenched teeth and catalog my injuries automatically—multiple bruised ribs screaming with every movement; my left shoulder feels like someone took a hammer to it; bandages pull tight against wounds that haven’t had time to fully scab over yet. Concussion, too—I can feel it inthe way the fading light from the windows needles at my skull like broken glass.
And then I see her.
Liv sits slumped forward in the chair beside my bed, one arm curled protectively around herself even in sleep. Her head rests on the mattress near my hand as if she fell there mid-watch. But it’s not her posture that sets something dark clawing its way up my chest—it’s her face.
