Aurelia’s face burned behind my eyes, stunned, betrayed, terrified, and my chest tightened until I could barely breathe. I wanted to run after her, to grab her and promise I wasn’t that man, to prove the world wrong by holding her steady. Instead I stood frozen, helpless in the only way that mattered. By not being able to make the truth untrue.
Guilt pooled under my anger. How many lies lived in my name? How many sins had shadowed me before I ever learned to walk? Every memory of her trusting me felt contaminated by Marcus’s reach. I wanted to tear out my own bloodline and throw it into the sea.
But there was also a stubborn, quiet resolve, a colder thing than vengeance. Not for punishment, but for repair. I would give her the distance she needed, because pushing would only hurt more. Yetevery inch of space I put between us would be measured and watched. I wouldn’t let her disappear into that night without finding her again.
The promise I made to myself was simple and terrible. I will bear what my father made, I will answer for it, and I will make sure she never has to face men like Boris alone again. The pain of watching her walk away was its own punishment but it was one I would endure if it meant I could make this right.
Victor emerged from the shadows, his suit immaculate despite the filth, his expression as neutral as ever, though his eyes flicked to Boris's corpse with professional detachment. "Sir," he said, "the site's secure. Team's on cleanup. What about the body?"
I tore my gaze from the door, forcing my voice steady, the rage simmering beneath like coals waiting for wind. "Clean up the mess. Dispose of him, river, acid, whatever. No traces. And the gun, wipe it, plant it if needed. Make it look like a deal gone bad, rival hit. Nothing leads back to us or her."
Victor nodded, signaling two men in black tactical gear who moved in with tarps and bleach. "Understood. Forensics team will scrub the scene. Drones confirm no witnesses. You're clear to exfiltrate."
I nodded, turning away as they began wrapping Boris, the plastic crinkling like a final insult. The drive back to the city was a blur. Aurelia's place was first. I parked across the street, the engine idling as I stared at the dark windows, willing her to appear, to let me in. But the door remained locked, no light flickering on, no shadow moving behind the curtains. I tried her phone, straight to voicemail, her voice bright and professional in the recording, astark contrast to the shattered woman who'd run from the warehouse.
"Aurelia, please... let me explain." I left the message, then another, my voice cracking on the last. I waited as hours ticked by but she didn't show. As dawn crept in my frustration boiled over, my fist slamming the steering wheel. Where was she? Had she gone to a friend? The island? I dialed Victor again, the line connecting mid-ring. "Find her. Location, now."
"Sir," Victor replied, unflappable. "On it. Phone's off, but I'll trace her. Give me thirty."
It didn’t take Victor much. "She's at JFK, sir. Flight to Chicago, then connecting to Dubuque. Maybe she’s heading to her parents' place in Galena. It’s a small town nestled along the Mississippi River in Illinois."
Galena. A small town, quaint and isolated. I gripped the phone, temptation surging to board the next flight, chase her down, beg her to listen. But no. She needed time, space from the chaos I'd pulled her into. With her family, she'd be safe. Rushing after her now would only pressure her, force a confrontation before she was ready. "Don't follow directly," I instructed. "Have someone keep an eye but be discreet. Make sure she's safe, report any threats. But give her space."
"Understood," Victor said. "I'll have a watcher in place by evening. Anything else?"
"Keep digging on Father. The trafficking, every detail, every connection to Aurelia's case"
"On it, sir."
I hung up, staring at the empty apartment building, the dawn light mocking me with its promise of new beginnings. Aurelia with her family was the safest option for now, a sanctuary where she could heal without my shadows looming. Until then, I'd gather intel, unravel Father's web, destroy it bit by bit. The empire he'd built on blood and betrayal, I'd burn it down, starting with the foundations.
~
It’s been almost two weeks since Aurelia left. I had to find things out on my own. I couldn’t endanger Aurelia. I needed to talk to my father. The drive to his mansion was a haze of resolve and rage, the highway unfurling under the rising sun like a path to reckoning. The upstate appeared on the horizon, grand and imposing. The gardens were pristine but to me, it was a monument to hypocrisy, opulence built on suffering. I parked with a screech, storming through the foyer. Elias, the butler barely managing a "Sir," before I waved him off, heading straight for the study.
Father wasn't there, the desk empty, the chessboard from our last game still set, pieces frozen in mid-battle. "Where is he?" I demanded Elias, who hovered in the doorway.
"Out on business, sir. Left early."
I cursed under my breath, frustration boiling. Confronting him now, demanding answers about the trafficking, about Aurelia's "shipment", it couldn't wait. But it would have to. I turned to leave, but the hallway pulled me toward my childhood room, the familiar corridor lined with portraits of stern ancestors staring down in judgment. On the way, I passed Mother's room, the doorslightly ajar as if inviting me in. Hesitation gripped me, my hand pausing on the knob, how long since I'd entered? Since her death, it had been a shrine, untouched, a wound I avoided. But today, with her diary's words, I pushed the door open, stepping into the past.
The ache that came with it was unbearable. Every corner of the room whispered of her warmth, her hands, her stories, and the silence that followed her death. I could still see the chandelier swaying, hear Zora’s scream, Anton’s fists pounding on Father’s chest, and Father’s voice, cold, practiced, calling it a suicide. The word still made my stomach turn.
Guilt washed over me, though I hadn’t earned it. Maybe it was the years of pretending I’d moved on, of letting her memory fade to survive in this house. Maybe it was knowing that every part of her had been erased by his lies.
My fingers trembled as I touched her things, dusty, delicate, untouchable. And for the first time in years, I let the grief come. The kind that burns, not because it’s fresh, but because it never really healed.
Then I found a photograph. It was us, childhood, perhaps, me hardly five, chubby-cheeked and grinning, Mother radiant with Anton and Zora beside her, Father stern but present. But there was another child, a girl, not much older than us, with dark hair and a shy smile, her arm around Mother's waist. Her face was burnt, a cigar stub ground into the photo, charring her features beyond recognition. Who was she? My heart pounded, a chill running down my spine. I don't remember her, no sibling, no cousin. A family secret?
I dialed Anton, the line ringing as I paced the room, the photo clutched in my hand. He picked up on the third ring, his voice groggy, probably hungover from whatever club he'd closed last night. "Keith? What the hell, it's early."
"Anton," I said, my voice tight. "Do you remember another child with us when we were kids? A girl, little bigger than you?"
Silence stretched, then a hesitant laugh. "What? No, man. Just us three. Why?"
I stared at the photo, the burnt face mocking me. "Found a picture in Mother's room. Us, her, Father, and a girl. Face burned out with a cigar."
Anton paused, his voice shifting, uncertain. "Wait... vaguely? Like a dream or something. There was a girl... stayed with us? But... nah, probably a cousin or nanny's kid. Ask Father. He remembers everything."
