Chapter 44
He’s marching toward the office Grayson told us to go to. He’s acting calm, like none of this gets to him, but it’s fake. He’s pissed, and it’s all over his face, no matter how hard he tries to hide it.
And, honestly, he should be.
My father stomped all over any humanly possible lines. He knew exactly what he was doing and didn’t give a damn. There’s nothing left to excuse it.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about it. Everyone expects shock or even denial. Something clean or acceptable.
But that’s not what’s there.
And the worst part is that when Adam talks about killing him, I don’t feel guilt.
I don’t want him dead—I think—but I don’t want him alive, either. Not like this. Not knowing what he’s done and what he’d do again if he had the chance.
I don’t say any of this out loud. I don’t even let myself think about it in full sentences, because once I do, I won’t be able to pretend I’m better than him. Or that I still believe some lines shouldn’t be crossed.
Adam opens the office’s heavy, wooden door and paces inside.
The room is dark and meticulously clean, cared for more than it needs to be. Black tones dominate the space, matching the rest of the house. On the desk, files, papers, and folders sit in precise stacks beside a closed laptop and a solved Rubik’s Cube.
“What is it again?” Adam jeers. “Brighten my day.”
Grayson walks closer, his hands folded in front of his lower abdomen, eyes tight with worry behind his glasses.
“We need to talk,” he says solemnly.
Adam lets out a bitter chuckle and shakes his head, eyes fixed on the floor as if he already understands what it’s about.
“Save it, old man.” His eyes snap up to meet Grayson’s. “We’ll be gone by sunrise.”
My stomach tightens. I don’t know how to feel about that. Here, I finally feel safe, but for how long? I know the truth; I’m just not ready to face it yet.
“I can’t help you right now, Adam,” Grayson says quietly. “They’ll find you soon. You’re in danger.”
Adam shrugs. “I don’t need any help. I’m in Cain’s house. This place is basically a fortress.”
“Cain can’t help you now,” Grayson says, his voice composed, yet I can still hear the edge in it. “He’s a damn fugitive.”
Adam exhales, unbothered. “And I said I don’t need any help.”
“Yes. You do,” he says sharply, the way a parent scolds a stubborn child. “That’s why I called him.”
“You called who?” Adam asks, scrunching his face.
A man dressed entirely in black moves closer to us, his footsteps slow and measured. His eyes are dark and intense.
Black shirt, black slacks, and … a white collar?
“Hello, cousin.”
Adam
Judas fucking Manson …
My beloved ex-military cousin, hiding behind a white collar like it scrubs the blood off him. Playing clean. Pretending he’s some fucking saint. That piece of shit is what hell coughs up when it wants to pretend it’s human.
Cousin … well, that’s what everyone else thinks, right? Easier that way. Not fucked up.
But I know. I fucking know. Me and him came from the same dirt, same filth, same sickness rotting us from the inside out. Same blood, same fucked-up wiring.
We were carved out of the same nightmare, something no one would want to admit—not even me.
But it’s there. Always has been.
An involuntary, sinister smile crosses my face as I bite my lip, fighting the urge to kill him right here.
“No, you didn’t,” I jeer, staring at him. I can’t believe Grayson had the fucking nerve to call him—to help who? Me?
Isabella clears her throat, obviously trying to cut through the silence and cool things down.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, feeling the anger sizzling in me already.
“Grayson said you need help.”
“Oh, how could I forget?” I sneer, flashing a grin that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Saint Judas himself, here to bless the broken and save the ones no one else will.” I shake my head, the smile stretching wider, more mocking. “What a fucking hero.”
“You haven’t changed at all. Still playing grown-up, I see.”
“Oh, I have. Now I can rip your fucking eyeballs off and jam them down your throat till you choke on your own goddamn pride.”
He folds his hands in front of him. “Still screaming for control like a child swinging a knife.”
Only then do I realize I’m still holding the blade. Suddenly, Isabella steps forward, her delicate fingers brushing against my wrist.
“Forgive me, Father. I didn’t catch your name.”
Judas pauses for a moment, eyes locked on hers.
“Gabriel,” he says quietly. “I’m Father Gabriel.”
“Yeah, right.” I scoff. “Fancy name.”
“I’m Isabella.”
“Nice to meet you, Isabella.”
“I couldn’t help but think what you said before.” She clicks her tongue. “About the knife.”
My brows furrow. What is she up to?
“At least he’s never pretended the blade was clean.”
My eyes widen, pride and surprise hitting all at once. That’s my fucking defiant girl!
Judas smiles too, lips curling just slightly. “Good job there, cousin.” He folds his hands behind his back now, his honey eyes shifting to Isabella. “I suppose you’re the reason he’s the most wanted man in the country. Am I right?”
She snorts.
“What can I say? She brings out the best in me,” I say, shrugging my shoulders.
“You need a way out of it,” Grayson speaks up.
“Yeah, but I don’t need help,” I say, crossing my arms.
Judas arches a brow and gives Isabella a slow once-over. “She’s a Calvano, huh?”
“I’m standing right here,” Isabella snaps.
Of course he knows who she is. He and her fucker of a father are cut from the same sleazy, dick-swinging cloth.
“Her old man doesn’t fuck around,” he adds.
“Wait, wait, wait.” She shakes her head, brows pulling in. “How do you know me?”
He lets the silence hang for a beat before he answers. “I know of you. Of your kind.”
“You and her were born in the same shit,” I cut in. “Only difference is she’s not pretending to be holy while still smelling like the rest of the shit. Father.”
“What do you mean?” she asks me.
“Haven’t you heard of the infamous Judas Manson?” I give a sinister smile, eyes on him.
“Cut it,” he says.
“No, I don’t think I have,” she snaps.
“Then maybe you’ve heard of the Beast,” I say, voice low, almost amused.
Her dark blue eyes flick wide at the name. “Uhm …”
“This isn’t about me,” he growls, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets. “You need help. People.”
“I need you to get the hell out and quit pretending you know what I need.”
He doesn’t move; he just stands there like he’s got all the time in the goddamn world.
Fucking dickface.
“You don’t even realize how far gone this is,” Judas says. “You’re surrounded, and you’re still acting like you’ve got options.”
“And let me guess … You’re the poor bastard sent to fix me?”
“No. I don’t fix people.”
I roll my eyes so hard it almost gives me a stroke. “Oh, fuck off with the messiah routine.”
“Adam, listen to him,” Isabella breathes quietly.
Judas looks at me, and I hate how fucking calm he is.
My jaw tightens, and I can feel the last of my pride circling the drain straight to Tartarus.
“And what’s your proposal, Father?” I ask, flashing a smile so fake it barely holds back the hate.
He watches me in silence, then the corner of his mouth lifts. “You’ll need a boogeyman to help you.”
Oh, fuck, no …
He enters from the office door, prowling slowly, taking his sweet fucking time, basking in the imaginary spotlight he probably thinks follows him around.
“Did you miss me, brother?”