Page 10 of Freedom’s Inferno

I flinched, and I hated myself for it.

“You knew, Lana. Don’t you dare stand there and try to tell me you weren’t aware Blackwell Sterling laundered money. You were cooking the books for him!”

I opened my mouth to respond, but his fist slammed against the blotter, rattling the pen holder and making the crystal tumbler jump. The impact went straight through me, a jolt to my spine.

“I was… cooking the books. You’re right. But‒”

But I didn’t have a fucking choice.

He leaned forward, forearms braced on the desk, and the leather chair groaned under the force of his movement. “After Richard died, I went looking. Do you know what I found? Twenty. Million. Dollars. Missing.” He jabbed a finger at me with each word, like he was pounding the number into my skin.

My throat went dry, but I held his stare.

“You think I don’t see through you? You killed him.” His voice rose, losing the careful restraint he usually cloaked himself in. “You killed Richard and you took the money. Don’t you fucking deny it.”

I opened my mouth, but he cut me off, shoving back in the chair long enough to drag in a ragged breath before slamming both palms onto the desk. The impact cracked through the room like a gunshot.

“Do you know whose money that is?” he barked, voice low and dangerous, as though the words themselves could summon someone into the room. His eyes glinted like steel when they met mine. “It belongs to Damian Costa. And if you think I’m your problem, Lana,” he leaned forward again, so close I could feel the heat of his breath, “you have no idea what’s coming for you.”

“Look, you’re right about one thing,” I began, taking a step back as I wrapped the robe tighter around myself. I figured lying wouldn’t get me anywhere, but maybe I could use the truth to convince him I didn’t have what he was looking for. “I did kill Richard. But he fucking deserved it, and it was never about money.”

Something flickered in Charlie’s face, his jaw slackening for half a second, a breath catching audibly in his throat. His eyes went wide, then narrowed again just as fast, but not before I caught the raw hurt flash through them.

Part of me wanted to defend myself against that hurt. To lay out the ugly details that justified my actions. But saying it out loud felt like handing him a piece of myself I’d never get back. The indignity of it rose in my throat, something sour I’d swallowed down for too many years. I wasn’t about to choke it up now. Not for him.

He watched me in silence for what felt like an eternity. I could see the shape of his thinking. How neatly he reduced everything to accusation, to make me the villain in his story. He wanted something simple. He wanted control. My stomach knotted.

“So what then?” I asked, voice level. “You think I murdered him for blood money? You think I bathed in his millions and danced as his empire burned? That’s not the story. You want a motive so bad you’ll invent one.” I met his gaze. “I didn’t take anything. I didn’t know he was hiding accounts. Blackwell Sterling made you a wealthy man, why is this my problem to solve when you could just cut a check?”

He laughed, but it came out thin. “That’s awfully fucking convenient. You expect me to swallow that bullshit and walk away?”

“I don’t have the money, Charlie, I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

“Chuck,” he hissed, dragging a hand through his hair.

He scoffed. You realize we’re talking about twenty million dollars. In liquid cash.”

“If you want to find that money, you’ll have to look somewhere else.”

He sat back, jaw working. His expression was unreadable, hurt or calculation, I couldn’t tell. Then he shook his head like he was clearing a thought away. “No. I’m not sure I believe you, but if you don’t have the money then you’re gonna help me find it.” He smiled, cruel and ugly. “I’m not letting you out of my sight until we do. I’m not an idiot. If you try to run, I’ll hand you to Costa on a silver platter.”

Heat rose to my face. “You’re threatening me?”

He shrugged, far too casual. “I’m setting expectations.” He tapped the backpack with the toe of his boot, the mundane gesture of a man who’d decided bedtime was negotiable. “I’m staying. You’re staying. We start hunting in the morning. Unless, of course, you’d like to try your luck with Damian Costa or the police department…”

The room tilted. Threat, leverage, the world narrowing to my own breath. Fury rose, hot and bright and useless in the face of that kind of certainty. “I think you’re forgetting, Charlie, that you’re complicit in laundering money for a criminal organization. You have just as much to risk going to the police as I do.”

He met me square, unblinking. “Only one of us is a murderer, Lana.”

The words were a blade he set against me, and for the first time since Richard’s body went cold, I realized how cleanly they fit. He’d turned the moral ledger into a weapon and aimed it at me.

I wanted to spit at him. I wanted to prove him wrong. Instead I straightened, folded my arms across my chest, and let the silence fill with my anger.

“Fine,” I said, “You can stay, but since we’re ‘setting expectations,’ let me make myself clear. I make zero guarantees we’ll find that money. I don’t give a shit if Damian Costa decides to spill your blood to settle a debt. You sleep on the couch, you give me my space, and when all of this is over you leave me the hell alone.”

He studied me, that same cold appraisal that had bored into me at the funeral. Then, he nodded, slowly. “Understood.”

“I’m going to bed. Find your own blankets. This isn’t a hotel.”