For what? Revenge? Power? Everything Byron ever told me feels like shifting sand beneath my feet.
The car GPS indicates I'm approaching the second warehouse, number 74. I slow down, parking the car behind a stack of shipping containers about a block away.
The warehouse looms ahead—a hulking shadow against the evening sky. No lights visible from outside. No guards that I can see, which makes me more nervous, not less.Byron never leaves things unprotected.
I creep toward a side entrance, testing the door. It opens and I carefully pull myself through, moving as softly as possible.
Silence engulfs me. Not the peaceful quiet of emptiness, but the heavy, waiting silence that follows violence. My breath catches as I scan the darkness, letting my eyes adjust.
A shape on the floor draws my attention—a body. I approach cautiously, staying low. One of Byron's men, a bullet hole in his forehead, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Blood pools beneath him, still warm when I touch it with trembling fingers.
Recent. Very recent.
His gun—a Glock—lies a few inches from his outstretched hand. I pick it up, checking the magazine. Nearly full. I slide it into my waistband.
I move deeper into the warehouse, stepping carefully over debris. No sign of Damiano or Lucrezia, but I can feel something—someone—nearby. A door ahead of me stands partially open, a sliver of light escaping around its edges.
Voices drift through—Byron's unmistakable tenor, and another, lower voice that makes my heart stop.
Damiano.
He's alive.
As I near the door, Byron's words become clearer, piercing through the warehouse silence. I press myself against the wall, the cold concrete a stark reminder of the reality I've stumbled into.
"Single father, drowning in debt, desperate to give his daughter a better life. He came to me for a loan."
He's talking about myfather.
A flicker of movement catches my eye. Enzo appears at the far end of the corridor, gun drawn, moving with lethal silence. His eyes widen when he spots me. I quickly raise a finger to my lips, pleading silently for him to wait. Understanding crosses his face as he nods once, holding his position.
Byron's voice continues, each word slicing through me like a knife.
"I adopted her because I knew she could turn useful," Byron spits. "I fed her anger for you all these years, making her believe that you killed her filthy father. I clothed her, educated her, gave her every fucking advantage."
My fingers tighten around the Glock.
"I'd already put a bullet in your pretty fiancée's head. And I made sure Travis joined her shortly after."
The world stops. My father didn't kill Bianca. Byron killed them both.
Every memory shifts, realigning with this terrible truth. I can't hear anything else right now.
After a moment I catch Enzo's eye again. He gestures toward the partially open door, then points to himself and mimics firing a gun. Next, he points at me, then at the narrow opening. His meaning is clear—he'll create a diversion while I take the shot.
I nod, gripping the Glock tighter. My hands are steady despite the hurricane of emotions inside me. Byron's training, at least, wasn't wasted.
Enzo inches closer, whispering so softly I can barely hear him. "Door's locked from inside. I'll shoot the lock. You go in fast and take Byron down."
I nod and I position myself near the door.
Enzo raises three fingers, counting down.
One.
Byron's voice continues inside, gloating over his manipulations.
Two.
