“How about your daughter?” Kirill asks carefully. “She’s in the house. If we go in heavy with explosives, we can’t guarantee she survives the crossfire.”
The silence on the tape lasts for four agonizing seconds. I count every single one of them, the blood roaring so loudly in my ears it threatens to drown out the speakers.
“Iris chose her path when she interfered with my affairs,” Hale states coldly. “If she’s tragically caught in a shootout between rival criminal factions... it will be a devastating loss for this family.”
The audio clicks. The call disconnects.
Dead, suffocating silence returns to the bunker.
I stare at the black screen. The green audio waveform is frozen, an indisputable digital record of a father casually ordering a massacre for a political promotion.
The timeline finally clicks into place.
I lean my weight on my right hand, gripping the edge of the console.
“He hired them first,” I note. “He wired the money a day in advance to set a trap. But Elias realized he was being hunted. He must have bypassed Kirill’s men and broken into the museum instead to plant bugs in the VIP study.”
“And Hale panicked,” Varro realizes, shaking his head in profound disgust. “The Syndicate couldn’t find Elias in time, so Hale used you.”
“He sent me the ‘Bluebird’ code,” I say, the rage inside me so incredibly dense, it feels like a physical mass expanding in my chest, threatening to crack my ribs. “He bypassed my protocols and made me his personal executioner as a backup plan. And when I went dark, he wrote another check to burn us all to the ground.”
“He didn’t even ask,” I add, my voice a hollow, dangerous rasp that barely sounds human.
Varro looks at me, his jaw tight. “He ordered a hit on you.”
“I took her from the museum to keep her quiet,” I say, my fingers digging into the edge of the console. “I haven’t told her a single goddamn thing. She still thinks he’s a saint. I’ve been keeping her in the dark to protect his reputation because I thought I owed him. I was being a loyal soldier. And he paid an army to wipe us both out to cover his tracks.”
“He factored her into the math,” I say. “A grieving father makes an untouchable nominee.”
I turn away from the monitors. I look down the length of the bunker at the door at the end of the room. The door to the inner quarters.
Her words echo through the halls of my mind.I need to let my father know I’m alive.
She thinks her father is out there, trapped in a political nightmare, desperately trying to figure out a way to save her from the monster who took her. She thinks the lies he told on television were a brilliant maneuver to protect her from her captor.
She loves him. She built her entire identity, her entire existence, around being the perfect, flawless daughter for a manwho doesn’t possess a heart. He threw her under the first bus without a second thought.
“Cassian,” Varro says cautiously, reading the lethal shift in my posture. “What are you going to do?”
“I have to tell her.”
“Boss...” He stands, stepping away from the console to physically block my line of sight to the door. “Think about this. Think about the reality. She’s stable right now. She’s cooperative. If you walk in there and play that tape for her... It’s going to break her mind.”
“I know.”
“If you break her, she becomes a wild card we can't predict,” he argues, his calculating mind desperately trying to manage the cascading risk. “She might shut down entirely. She might decide she has nothing left to live for and stop fighting. Let her believe Volkov ordered the siege. Let her believe it’s gang violence. It keeps her focused on an enemy she can actually face. We have the Ledger. We can bury the Judge from the shadows without tearing out her foundation and making her a suicide risk in the middle of a war.”
I stare at Varro. He’s making sense, offering the easy, pragmatic way out.
If I hide this, I keep the girl who looked at me with soft eyes moments ago. I keep the girl who surrendered to me against the concrete wall. I keep the beautiful, fragile illusion intact.
But I know how toxic illusions are.
“Five years ago,” I say, my voice eerily calm, the Ghost taking total control. “I was framed for a murder I didn’t commit. I sat in a freezing concrete cell, waiting for the lethal injection, believing the justice system had made a terrible mistake. The Judge found the loophole and threw the case out. He saved my life.”
Varro frowns, confused by the pivot. “I know the history, Cassian.”
“I worshipped him for it,” I continue, ignoring him, staring through him. “I thought he was a righteous man in a corrupt city. I pledged my life to him. I kept this city’s underworld in line for him. All because I believed I owed an unpayable debt to a saint.”
