Page 56 of Freedom’s Inferno

“You thought I killed him for his money,” I said. “And you were partially right. I didn’t want half. I wanted all of it. I earned it. Every cent. Every sleepless night keeping his accounts straight, covering his tracks, smoothing things over when his arrogance threatened to unravel everything we built. He liked to play the genius, but he never would’ve gotten there without me.”

The words scraped on their way out, rough with the truth I’d never said aloud. I turned my face toward the glass again, watching the world blur.

“But that wasn’t the only reason.” I paused. The next words came out thinner, quieter. “I couldn’t allow it to happen to anybody else. Richard would’ve never let me go, and when he killed me, it wouldn’t take him long to find another ornament to hang from his arm. I wasn’t about to let another woman suffer him. He deserved it, and I wanted the money. So, maybe I did give up a piece of my humanity when I took my freedom, but I’d do it again.”

For a long time, he didn’t say anything. The city kept moving around us, stoplights, pedestrians, morning rush, and he just drove, both hands gripping the wheel like the car was the only thing tethering him to the present. I thought maybe he wasn’t going to answer at all.

He glanced at me then, the look in his eyes dark, steady, and too honest. “I see you, Lana. Every jagged edge, every piece you had to break off just to survive, and I understand. More than I want to.”

He’d lived this in another form, years before me. I could see it: the memory of his mother’s fear, the helplessness of a child who had to stand still and listen.

Without thinking, I reached across the console. My hand hovered there, uncertain in the space between us, a fragile offering suspended in the quiet.

Then Charlie looked down. His eyes flicked to my hand, and he hesitated. His composure cracked for half a second, but he reached back. His hand found mine, rough and warm, his fingers sliding between mine until our palms fit together. He gave a single, grounding squeeze, and I returned it, just as firm.

The road curved ahead, the light shifting gold across the dashboard. His pulse jumped against my wrist, steady and human, and for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel alone.

Chapter 24

Lana

We pulled into the parking lot of Dime Bank and Charlie powered down the engine. We just sat there, neither of us acknowledging the nervous energy that buzzed under our skin. This was it. The deposit box was the only lead we had left, a thin thread between us and ruin. Costa’s shadow stretched closer by the day, no telling how much longer he’d wait before deciding the hunt had grown stale. When would he decide making the kill was easier and cut his losses?

“Are you ready?” Charlie’s buckle came free with a click. His eyes found mine, steady and unhurried. He held that quiet, knowing patience of a man who’d already walked through Hell with me and was prepared to do it again.

I nodded, swallowing hard, my throat like sandpaper.

Dime Bank loomed before us, all weathered brick and copper trim turned sea-green patina. The whole structure looked dignified, standing long enough to bear witness to fortunes built and burned.

Inside, the lobby was a cavern of shiny tile floors and high, coffered ceilings, their insets painted with muted gold leaf that caught the morning light in careful glints. Brass sconces lined the walls, throwing soft light across columns veined with green and white stone. The air smelled crisp and clean, and the marble countertops were decorated for the season with small pumpkins and gourds.

We must have looked strange walking into the bank together. I was polished within an inch of perfection in my pencil skirt and heels, not a hair out of place, and Charlie stood beside me in worn jeans and a flannel. His hand was still wrapped in that makeshift bandage like he’d come from breaking something.

I almost laughed. I might have if the teller’s expression hadn’t soured as we approached.

His eyes flicked from my heels to Charlie’s bandaged hand, his mouth tightening with forced civility. “Good afternoon.” His voice came out tight and thin, like it might crack under the weight of politeness. “How can I help you today?”

Charlie patted his jacket like a man who had all the time in the world. “Hang on,” he muttered, digging in one pocket.

He pulled out a handful of loose change that clattered onto the marble counter—quarters, dimes, something that might’ve been a guitar pick—and set them down with a faint shrug.

The teller blinked.

I folded my hands and gave a patient, apologetic smile.

Next came a crumpled pack of gum, a pocketknife, and a pile of wrinkled receipts. Charlie, that insufferable bastard, stopped to squint at one before frowning and jamming it back into his jacket.

“Mr. Sterling…” I said, my voice a little higher than intended.

He shot me a sidelong look, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Patience, sweetheart.”

I arched a brow. Really?

Finally—finally—he fished out the small brass key and held it up triumphantly. “Here it is.”

The teller’s expression hovered somewhere between disbelief and suspicion as Charlie set the key on the counter amid the scattered evidence of his chaos. The teller stared at the mess, then at him, then at me, as if trying to decide whether this was a robbery, a comedy routine, or a cry for help.

I smiled tightly as I gestured to the key. “My husband, Richard Blackwell, tragically passed away. This is his business partner, Charles Sterling. We’d like to access his safety deposit box.”