Chapter 13
Lucian
I’m avoiding going home.
Because I’ve become too accustomed to being welcomed there. To his warmth in my bed.
Snow sheaths the roofs like a thin layer of ash, the morning sun carving pale light across the skyline.
From my office window, I can see the whole stretch of North End—ships creeping through the harbor, steam spilling up from chimneys, traffic crawling like veins pumping through the city’s metal heart.
None of it gives me the clarity everyone always assumes I have. It’s been two days since I ordered Elias dragged from my home and locked in the cells below the building. Two days since he looked at me through the bars with something worse than fear—disappointment. Betrayal. Hurt.
Two days of me trying to prove—desperately, obsessively, pathetically—that he was guilty.
And finding absolutely nothing besides an email and a blurry picture.
I close my eyes, letting my head fall back against the leather of my office chair.
My fingertips press into the almost fully healed wound under my ribs—still tender from Xavier Long’s bullet.
It’s nothing, a graze. But Elias’s hands had shaken when he stitched it.
He’d been so close I could smell the cinnamon from the cookies he baked earlier.
Now, he’s in my cells, probably wishing I were dead. My father would’ve been proud of the efficiency. The thought makes bile rise in my throat.
A knock breaks into the spiral.
“Come in,” I say, voice rough from too much silence.
Mara steps inside, carrying a tray of coffee the way she used to do for my father. The image hits me with an almost physical weight.
“I wanted to come down here and check on you. I figured you hadn’t eaten,” she says gently. She’s one of the only people who still speaks to me like I’m human.
“Thank you.” I gesture halfheartedly toward the table.
But she doesn’t move toward it. Instead, she sets the tray on my desk, studying me with the shrewd, steel-edged concern only a woman raised in an organization like this could muster.
“You look tired,” she says.
“I’m fine.”
“Lucian.”
I grit my teeth.
She waits.
“Elias is still downstairs, isn’t he?” she finally asks.
My jaw tightens. “He stays there until I’m sure.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Sure of what? His innocence or your fear of being wrong?”
My eyes snap open.
She doesn’t flinch.
“I heard something,” Mara continues softly. “And you need to hear it too.”
I force myself upright, pulse ticking faster. “What is it?”
“You know Hartford was in the communications room the night the email surfaced.”
“Of course.”
“Well… I heard him talking to some of the younger guards earlier at the house. Bragging.” Her mouth hardens. “He said something about how ‘Lucian won’t last long if he can be led around by a pretty face.’”
A cold line slices down my spine.
I go still.
Mara presses on. “And I heard him mention something else—a detail he shouldn’t have known. Something Hartford told you didn’t line up with what he told the guards.”
“What detail?”
A beat passes.
“About the timestamp on the email,” she says. “He said it came in at ten p.m. But earlier, he told the guards he was the one who found it at seven.”
My heart stops.
My father’s consigliere. A man who served our family for decades.
A man who stood behind me at the funeral and swore loyalty.
A man who told me Elias had “clearly” been in communication with Xavier, that the evidence was “irrefutable,” that I needed to “act quickly before the boy slit your throat like his brothers would want.”
Hartford, who always believed I was too soft, too young, too disinterested in ruling with an iron fist.
Hartford, who served my father—the tyrant I swore I would never become.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
Mara rests a hand on my arm, grounding me. “Lucian, I think Hartford manipulated you. And I think you’re about to do something you’ll regret if you don’t confront him with a clear head.”
But my head is anything but clear now.
It’s sharp.
It’s cutting.
It’s cold.
“Where is he?” My voice comes out low, flat, dangerous.
She hesitates. “In the briefing room.”
I’m already on my feet.
“Lucian,” she says quietly. “Be careful.”
Hartford’s betrayal makes me forget I don’t want to be known as the devil.
The door to the briefing room creaks open. Hartford stands at the table with two captains, going over a shipment schedule. He looks up, and everything about him shifts. Surprise flickers—then careful neutrality.
“Boss,” he says smoothly. “You’re early.”
The captains glance between us.
“Leave,” I order.
They scatter.
Hartford folds his hands behind his back. “What can I help you with?”
“You were there when the email from Elias came in, weren’t you?” My voice feels like a blade, edge honed to perfection.
“Of course,” he says. “Handled it personally.”
“Interesting,” I murmur. “Because you told one version of events to me. And a different version to the guards.”
His expression flickers—but barely.
“Miscommunication,” he says easily.
“You also seemed to be sure of Elias’s betrayal even before the email was sent.”
He freezes for a fraction of a second. It’s small, but I’m trained to see it. “Boss, I don’t know—”
I cock my gun and shoot him in the leg. Hartford falls against the table, yelling out.
I press the barrel to his head, my voice chilling. “Tell me the fucking truth, Hartford.”
He stares at me without an ounce of fear.
“I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been alive, Lucian,” he says. “I have contacts everywhere. You know that.”
Lucian.
Not “Boss.” Not “Sir.”
Arrogance. Familiarity. Contempt.
“Tell me the truth before I spread your brains all over this fucking room.”
“The truth,” he says, slowly, deliberately, “is that you’ve grown weak. And the boy is the reason. You used to be sharper. Harder. Your father would never have let a Moretti brat crawl into his bed and destroy his judgment.”
The world goes silent.
He continues, voice dripping with disgust.
“You’ve forgotten what it means to rule. I was offered enough money to test your loyalty to the family—and you failed. Miserably. The city needs a real leader again, not a lovesick child letting himself be manipulated.”
Lovesick. Child.
He doesn’t stop.
“They paid me to make sure Xavier Long knew where you would be that night. They wanted you gone. So he acted. And you survived only because he’s sloppy.” Hartford’s lip curls. “You’re soft, Lucian. You always have been.”
My breath leaves me in a single, devastating exhale.
“And the email?” I ask quietly.
“Fabricated,” he says. “Elias never sent anything. But you believed it. Because you wanted to. I needed you to see how stupid you’ve been, boy. That this infatuation is going to make you small.”
My hand tightens around the gun. He sees it and smiles wider.
“You’re soft, Lucian,” he says. “You always have been. Even as a boy.”
I lower the gun slowly. Not because I’m sparing him, but because I want my hands wrapped around him when he dies.
He watches me carefully.
“What?” he asks.
I set the gun on the table beside him.
His brows lift slightly.
“You taught me to finish things properly,” I say.
He exhales a slow breath. “And what are you finishing?” he asks.
“You.”
I grab him by the collar and slam him down onto the floor. His wounded leg buckles uselessly, blood smearing across the polished wood. He grunts, swinging at me with surprising strength. His fist catches my jaw.
I welcome it. The pain makes things clearer. I can finally see.
I drive my knee into his ribs, feeling cartilage shift under impact. He wheezes but doesn’t stop. He reaches for something—
A blade flashes toward my side. I twist just in time for it to slice into my bicep. Hot pain flares, but I don’t pull back. I catch his wrist mid-swing and twist making the knife clatter to the floor.
He laughs. Actually laughs.
“That’s it,” he says, breath ragged. “There he is.”
I drive my fist into his face. Bone cracks. Blood sprays. He spits red and grins through it.
“You think ruling is about love?” he demands. “It’s about fear.”
“I am feared,” I say.
“Not if you keep this pussy act up,” he replies, voice hoarse.
I grab his throat and slam him against the wall. The impact rattles the room.
“You endangered my family,” I say quietly.
“I protected it,” he counters. “From you.”
The audacity. The loyalty twisted into treason.
“You couldn’t stomach the idea of me choosing differently,” I say.
“You don’t get to choose,” he snarls. “You inherit.”
I tighten my grip until his words cut off into a choke.
“You don’t get to decide!” I reply.
He claws at my wrist. Kicks uselessly with his injured leg.
“You think that boy makes you strong?” he gasps.
I don’t reply. I don’t need to. He sees what I think on my face.
Hartford’s eyes flicker. Something almost like approval passes through them.
“You’re finally angry,” he rasps.
I release him just long enough to pick up the knife.
He slides down the wall, blood pooling beneath him.
“You always needed someone to push you,” he says.
I crouch in front of him.
“You trained me,” I say.
“Yes.”
“You beat me.” My voice doesn’t sound familiar.
“Yes.”
“You taught me to anticipate betrayal.”
A faint smile touches his mouth.
“Yes.”
“And you think this is a test,” I say.
“It is,” he replies.
I study him.
“You wanted to see if I would choose love,” I say.
He shakes his head weakly.
“I wanted to see if you’d choose power.”
Silence.
“I can have both,” I say.
He almost laughs.
“Then prove it. Show me you aren’t weak.”
I smile and I know it doesn’t look human. I don’t hesitate. I drive the blade into his ribs, exactly where he taught me.
His breath leaves him in a shuddering gasp. His eyes lock onto mine. No fear. No pleading.
Just something dark and proud.
“There,” he whispers faintly. “That’s my boy.”
I twist the knife. His body jerks once, then stills.
The light drains from his eyes slowly. He collapses fully against the floor as I withdraw the blade.
Blood coats my hands.
The air smells heavy and metallic. I stand over him, chest rising and falling steadily as a realization washes over me.
I am my father’s son.
I wipe the blade clean on Hartford’s jacket and pick up my gun.
When I step out of the briefing room, the hallway is silent. The captains look at me once.
At the blood.
They don’t ask questions.
“Clean it,” I say.
I take the stairs two at a time. The building feels different now. Quieter. Like it knows something irreversible just happened.
Hartford’s blood is drying on my sleeve. My knuckles ache. The cut on my bicep throbs in time with my pulse, warm and sticky beneath torn fabric. I don’t bother cleaning myself up.
There are more important things.
The corridor to the holding cells is dimly lit, concrete walls swallowing sound. Two guards straighten when they see me. Their eyes flick to the blood. Then away.
“Open it,” I say.
They don’t ask which one. The door buzzes and unlocks.
“Wait outside,” I add.
They hesitate only a second before retreating down the hall. For the first time in years, my hands feel unsteady. I push through the final security door and step into the holding area.
“Elias?” My voice echoes faintly off cement.
He looks up from the narrow cot. His brown hair is disheveled. His skin is pale, sharper than usual. There are dark hollows beneath his eyes I don’t remember ever being there before. Three trays of food sit untouched near the bars.
He hasn’t eaten.
Something inside my chest twists hard. I cross to the cell and unlock it myself. The door swings open with a metallic groan.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
We just stare.
“I found out who did it.” I breath. “I know it wasn’t you.”
He glances at my ruined clothes, my hands stained with blood. He stands, straightening his shirt.
“Am I free to return to your estate, master?”
He doesn’t sound like himself. He’s saying our play words as if they were real. “Elias, I’m so sorry. Hartford he—”
“Am I free to return to your estate?” His voiced is sharp, scathing.
I take a step back from the door, my heart shuddering in my chest. “Y-yes. I’ll have Mara escort you.”
Elias pushes past me. “I’ll be waiting in the lobby.”
Hartford’s blood drips onto the floor.