I stopped in the living room. The fireplace gate was tossed aside, thrown in the corner as if someone wanted it out of the way.But that didn’t make sense.Nothing was in the fireplace—
Except the ledgers Tessa had found.
These crooks were after whatever secrets this brownstone hid. I walked back upstairs hastily, each step echoing in the quiet house, my mind already racing through the ledgers’ cryptic entries. Every line, every number could be a clue, a key to understanding what had put Tessa in danger, and what might draw more threats if I didn’t solve it.
I sat at the desk in the study, spreading the ledgers out before me, hands moving methodically as I traced patterns, cross-referenced dates, and jotted notes. The house was quiet, but the weight of the night’s violence lingered in the corners, in the lingering scent of blood and chaos. I couldn’t let it cloud my focus. Not now. Not ever.
I was half tempted to run the numbers by Dino, but refrained. I didn’t want that nosy weasel sticking his snout into my business.
I sank into the chair, spreading the ledgers across the desk, and spent the next few hours immersed in their pages. Numbers, codes, cryptic notes all blurred together at first, but I worked methodically, tracing patterns, cross-referencing entries, and marking anything that seemed out of place. Every so often,I paused, brow furrowed, running a finger along a line as if coaxing the secrets from the ink itself.
Time passed without my noticing it; the quiet of the house was punctuated only by the scratch of my pen and the soft rustle of turning pages. Piece by piece, the puzzle began to form, and the picture that emerged was darker and more complex than I had anticipated.
Someone had been stealing from my family for years. The ledgers spelled it out with cold, meticulous clarity—accounts siphoned off, transactions erased, money disappearing into shadows. It looked like my grandmother had finally put a stop to it after my grandfather had died, tightening control and keeping records that would reveal the truth if anyone dared to cross her.
But who had it been? Why had my grandfather turned a blind eye, or not known about it, but my grandmother put her foot down?
“Fuck,” I muttered.
Before I could delve any deeper, my phone beeped. Gianni and Stefano were here to pick up the two dead bodies laying on Tessa’s bedroom floor. I ran a hand over my face, exhaling slowly, then stood and grabbed my coat. Even after years in this world, the logistics of cleanup never got easier.
I walked down the stairs, the house eerily quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside. At the front door, I peered through the peephole first—two familiar silhouettes waiting patiently.
I unlocked the door and opened it just enough to let them in. “Good morning,” I said tersely. Gianni and Stefano gave nothing away, expressionless, their hands gripping large plastic bins. The label was harmless enough—“Christmas Decorations”—but I knew better. Inside was everything needed to clean up and dispose of the bodies.
They followed me up the stairs and into the room, moving silently. One of them opened a bin, and with precise, practicedmotions, they spread a tarp across the floor. The faint smell of antiseptic mixed with the lingering metallic tang of blood, and I couldn’t help but watch them work.
Gianni and Stefano worked efficiently, methodical and unflinching. One body at a time went onto the tarp, their hands steady as they dismembered just enough to fit each piece into the bin. There was no hesitation, no wasted movement—every action precise, calculated, and practiced.
Maybe I should take them off debt collection and place them in clean up. They were clearly better at it.
Stefano was working on folding up the tarp when Tessa opened the door.
“Felix?” she asked, rubbing the sleep out of her eye.
I stepped in front of her, shielding the tarp and the bins from view. “Go back to bed,” I said firmly, my voice low but commanding. “I’ll be there soon.”
Tessa’s eyes narrowed as she glanced past me, catching just a hint of the tarp and the bins. A flicker of understanding crossed her face, and her hand went to her mouth. She didn’t need me to say more. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she nodded and turned back toward the stairs. I watched her retreat, silent and tense, her bare feet making almost no sound on the hardwood.
With Tessa safely back in her room, I motioned for Gianni and Stefano to begin. They lifted the first bin carefully, muscles tense but controlled, and carried it toward the door.
The sun had barely started to climb over the horizon, so there weren’t many people out. But for those who did see us, they wouldn’t be any wiser to the “Christmas Decorations.” The bins went into the back of the van, covered and secured, and the men moved with the practiced ease of professionals who’d done this countless times. Not a word was spoken beyond the necessary directions; every sound, every motion was calculated to leave no trace.
By the time the van pulled away, the house looked untouched, nothing hinting at the chaos that had taken place inside the brownstone just hours before. I exhaled the sigh of relief I’d been holding in, feeling the tension in my shoulders finally begin to ease, if only slightly.
I finally made my way back upstairs, moving quietly so as not to wake her again. Tessa lay curled under the covers, the faint rise and fall of her chest a fragile reminder of the safety I had managed to secure for her. I stripped down to my underwear, shedding the layers that carried the night’s adrenaline and blood, and slipped under the blankets beside her.
Wrapping my arms around her, I held her close, letting her warmth anchor me. Her small, trusting weight against me was a stark contrast to the chaos we’d just endured, and for the first time since the intruders had entered, I allowed myself a slow, steadying breath. Outside, the city stirred, oblivious to the horrors of the night, but here, in this fragile cocoon, we were safe, if only for a little while.
Chapter 29
Tessa
For the next week, everything about the break in plagued my nightmares. The men chasing me through the house. One of the hovering over me, pulling my pajama bottoms off. Feeling the wet splatter of blood on my face as Felix killed them. Waking felt like coming up from under water—my lungs burning, heart pounding, and then plunging back into the depths of despair.
I’d assumed Felix and the two men who’d “cleaned up” the bodies were just part of the nightmare, a cruel invention of my mind. Then I realized they weren’t: the same two men from my kidnapping had actually dismembered the intruders on my bedroom floor.
At least the blood hadn’t been mine to scrub away.
