I’m still standing here in the wreckage of my own almost-life.
I don’t even know how long I stay there watching them. Long enough to burn the image into my brain. Long enough to know it’ll haunt me.
When they finally walk away, hand in hand with her between them, I wipe at my wet cheeks angrily and duck my head. I start walking fast, back toward my car, swallowing the ache that won’t stop climbing my throat.
I’m so stupid. If this isn’t a sign to move on, I don’t know what is.
I can almost hear Dr. Grant’s voice in my head saying ‘living in the past isn’t healthy, Lina.’ Yeah, well... it’s not that simple. When the future feels this uncertain, it’s hard to let go of the only pieces of your life that ever felt like home.
However, one thing is certain… I can’t keep doing this. Not to myself. Not anymore. It’s time to go back to Atlanta. Time to figure out how the hell to move forward.
As I drive out of Knoxville, the sun’s already dipping low, the sky streaked in gold. My heart feels bruised and my eyes raw. I tell myself I’ll figure things out when I get back to Atlanta. That this will be the last time I let my past pull me under.
Deep down, I know better. Joe is still out there, and if he can find me once, he can find me again. The clock is ticking.
If I don’t start fighting for my future soon... I might not have one left.
Chapter 20
Johnny
A storm hammers the windshield of my Aston Martin, rain hitting like gunfire. Nashville doesn’t usually get storms like this. But tonight, it fits. The board meeting Walter promised is finally happening. I was invited to "sit in," learn about the opportunity, ask questions. Like I don’t already know. Like I’m not already ten moves ahead.
I’ve done a lot of fucked up shit in my life. Killed men. Broken people. But trafficking? That’s the line. The kind you burn into concrete and never cross. Not after seeing what assault did to Lina. Not after knowing how deep the scars run in the aftermath. I may be a monster, but I’ll never bethatkind of monster. Joe, though? I’d bet every cent I’ve got he’s neck-deep in this filth. Especially if he and Walter are in bed together, which I’m positive they are.
So, I’ll sit with these men who make my skin crawl. I’ll drink their whiskey. I’ll smile for their cameras. Then, I’ll burn their empire to the ground.
But first, I need to kill Joe.
I pull into a long, winding drive. The mansion ahead gleams with excess. Tall columns, gold trim, too many cars. Too many predators in tailored suits. I park behind the line and kill the engine. Before I can open the door, a woman appears, rushing through the rain with an umbrella. She’s a maid, maybe. Disposable staff.
“Sir,” she says softly. “This way, please.”
I take the umbrella and follow her up the stairs, rain slicking the marble beneath my feet. Inside, she folds it neatly and gestures for me to keep following. My dress shoes click across the tile as I follow the corridors. Gilded wallpaper. Oversized portraits. A shrine to wealth built on rot.
Finally, we reach an office turned boardroom. There’s a long table with twelve chairs. Just enough for the eleven old bastards. Twelve, if you count me.
The maid eyes me warily as I pass. Smart woman.
Walter spots me instantly. “Jonathan, son. Come meet our host, Frances James.”
Frances looks like a weasel stuffed into a suit. Too-slick hair, watery eyes, and a handshake like wet tissue. Weak men hide behind stronger monsters. Frances is no exception.
“Jonathan,” he greets me. “Walter’s told us so much about you. We’re looking forward to seeing what you bring to the table.”
“Thank you for having me.” The lie tastes clean on my tongue. “I see a long and successful partnership ahead.”
Frances smiles, buying it. Fool.
“Help yourself to a drink. We’ll begin shortly.”
Dismissed, I move to the bar. A staff member pours me a whiskey neat. I sip slow, scanning the room. Every face matches the file in my research. Old money. New money. Southern charm dipped in arsenic. Dangerous, all of them. Most of these men are worse than I am.
Five minutes later, Walter calls us to order. I wait until the others sit, then take the open seat to his right.
“Gentlemen,” Walter announces, “let’s begin.”
Frances runs point. Discusses shipments, routes, ports. The ugly math of human cargo, dressed up in buzzwords and spreadsheets.
