Chapter 16 Estella #2
We are all villains here. Some of us hide it better, draping ourselves in the illusion of virtue, crafting the appearance of doing good—fragile, fleeting, and entirely artificial.
Cane pulls out a stack of cash, his usual silent offer, but my attention is fixed on that damn ring still. The gold gleam mocks me, bright and hollow.
I don’t want that. I don’t want the pretending, the masks, the suffocating normalcy. I don’t want to wake up next to someone who only loves the version of me they’ve built in their head. I don’t want a cage made of family photos and lies.
Cane wears his ring because it makes him appear human, respectable—a man who fits neatly into the world.
But I don’t want to fit in.
I don’t want to appear normal. I want to be seen, loved, and accepted exactly for what I am.
I snatch the cash from his hand before he can say another word.
The smooth paper slides beneath my fingers, crisp and new, a tactile whisper of power.
I bring the stack closer to my face and inhale deeply, the scent of freshly printed bills curling through my senses like the best perfume.
A slow, satisfied smile spreads across my lips as flashes of indulgence spark behind my eyes—endless possibilities, vivid and consuming.
I fucking love my job.
“Don’t spend it all at once,” Cane says, his voice laced with dry amusement as he reads my mind once again. “They were hesitant, you know. I had to convince them those were accidents.”
I roll my eyes, exhaling sharply. I don’t need him to clarify who he’s talking about.
“You’re seriously going to lecture me about those two idiots?
Owen was insulting me,” I say, letting my gaze wander toward the ceiling as the memory floods back.
“And that Emmett guy—he grabbed a baseball bat. To hit me.”
Cane’s eyes snap wide, pupils dilating in shock, and then a laugh tears from his throat. It crashes through the tension like glass exploding against stone. My brow furrows, and my jaw slackens, disbelief rooting me to the spot.
“You think I’m lying?”
He raises both brows, still smiling like the bastard he is. “No, I believe you. For some reason, I really do. They weren’t that important, thankfully,” he adds with a dismissive wave, as if I need reassurance.
“It was all Dante’s doing, you know,” I say, pride seeping into my tone, sharper than fire under skin. “He was a savage.”
His jaw clenches, lines hardening as his expression sharpens into something colder, more calculating. “He’s doing a good job so far?”
I nod, my attention flicking to the cash I’m still toying with between my fingers. The bills whisper as they move, soft and weightless. “Yep. But he still needs me to control him. You know… to guide him.”
“I didn’t say he’s going to work alone,” he says, suspicion creeping into his voice.
“I know,” I answer quickly. “I’m just saying.”
A faint tension begins to coil in my gut, invisible but insistent. I swallow, the air thickening as a sheen of sweat forms at my temple. “I mean, I just don’t want him to kill himself by accident. He’s got potential.”
The silence that follows feels heavier than it should. Cane studies me, and the longer he looks, the tighter my muscles pull.
I can only pray he doesn’t catch the truth dancing behind my carefully constructed mask: the heat coiling in my chest, the restless unease clawing at me, and the nameless thing I refuse to acknowledge.
“You? Thinking someone besides you has potential?” Cane repeats, each word stark with disbelief. “Something must’ve shifted in the universe.”
I sigh, the sound weary and sharp as I toss the cash onto the counter with a loud slap. “You make me sound like an asshole,” I complain, crossing my arms.
“Aren’t you?”
My lips twitch, and a dangerous gleam ignites in my eyes, daring him to test me. Cane only smiles—slowly and disarmingly, the kind of smile that unnerves yet invites. He steps closer, his presence folding into the space between us. His hand lands on my arm, a claim both quiet and undeniable.
“My favorite asshole,” he murmurs.
For a second, amusement slices through the storm inside me. My head dips, a half-smile tugging at my lips as I shake it, pretending to hide the warmth his words leave behind. God help me, this might be one of the most genuinely kind things he’s ever said.
“I have to go,” he says after a beat, pushing past the moment before it stretches too long. “But we’ll keep in touch. Take care, Estella.”
He turns to leave, but I catch his arm before he can take a step; the fabric of his coat is rough beneath my fingers. He glances back at me, a question already alive in his eyes.
“Can I ask you for something?”
Dante hovers in my mind, uninvited and constant, like a pulse I can’t silence. His shadow has been haunting me, setting fire to thoughts I can’t put out. After Julian, I know I need to stop chasing cheap imitations and face the only thing that actually matters.
“I’m listening,” Cane says, patient but cautious.
“It’s about Dante,” I admit, chewing on my lower lip as I force the words into shape. “You have his file, right?”
“What’s this about?”
The itch of urgency crawls beneath my skin, making it impossible to stand still. “Do you?”
“Yes, I have it. He’s—”
I press my index finger against his lips, silencing him before he can finish. His breath warms my skin, but I don’t move. “I want to read it myself,” I whisper. “Can you bring me a copy?”
When I pull my hand away, he hesitates, the calculating flicker behind his eyes tightening. “Why? I thought you knew enough to work with him.”
“It’s nothing,” I lie smoothly, though the words burn on my tongue. “He just impressed me, that’s all. I’m curious about his past.”
He holds my gaze, unblinking, the air between us tightening into a quiet standoff. I tilt my head slightly, softening my expression, letting my eyes glisten just enough, lips curving into something almost innocent.
“Please?”
A long exhale escapes him, tired and reluctant. His eyelids close as though he’s surrendering to the inevitable. “Okay,” he mutters. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Before he can change his mind, I lunge forward, smashing my chest against his in a sudden, crushing hug. My arms lock tight around him, and I squeeze until I hear the faint pop of his ribs and feel a low grunt vibrate through his chest.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
A sudden cough cuts through the silence from somewhere down the corridor, followed by a heavy thud that makes both of us freeze. I unwrap my arms from Cane and turn before moving toward the sound. I can feel him right behind me, his steps quick and tense.
When we reach the source of the noise, our eyes land on Julian—sprawled across the floor like a discarded puppet.
His face is unnervingly calm, eyes closed as though he’s simply fallen asleep.
In his limp hand rests a small, matte bottle, the kind that screams danger even before you know what’s inside.
Cane’s black bag lies beside him, unzipped.
Cane snarls under his breath. “Oh, fuck me.”
“Right now?” I shoot back. “Didn’t know you were kinky like that.”
He lets out a laugh—loud, raw, teetering somewhere between genuine amusement and sheer exasperation. The sound rattles the still air as he digs into his pocket, pulling out his phone. “Did he have asthma?” he asks, slender fingers flying over the screen, dialing without looking.
I shrug, watching the unmoving body on the floor.
Julian doesn’t twitch, doesn’t breathe—just lies there, the serenity on his face twisted into something grotesque by the stillness of death.
“How the fuck should I know? I knew him for, what, twenty minutes?” My gaze drops to the bottle glinting in his hand. “What’s even that?”
Cane glances down briefly, his tone clipped and tense. “It’s called Hush,” he says, as though naming it is enough to explain.
I arch an eyebrow, confused. He presses the phone to his ear, and as the dial tone hums faintly between us, he adds, “Bio-signal aerosol. It triggers an instantaneous vagal reflex and overdrives the system into… fatal silence.”
My lips press together as I fight back a smirk. “Somebody pissed you off, huh?”
“That… was a personal matter.” His eyes dart to the open bag, then to Julian’s lifeless body. “Now why the fuck would he snoop around in my bag? This fucking idiot.”
A laugh escapes me, rising from deep in my chest, impossible to hold back.
Sometimes, the universe has a sense of humor. Sometimes, problems solve themselves.
Cane turns away, phone pressed tight to his ear, muttering orders to whoever’s on the other end. His voice fades into background noise, a dull hum against the crackling silence.
My attention lingers on Julian’s body, on the way his arm bends unnaturally, on the faint gleam of the bottle still caught in his fingers. This is exactly what every man looks like to me in the end: weak, stupid, and incapable.
Everyone except Dante.
Cane brought me Dante’s file early in the morning, and since then, time has lost all meaning.
Hours blur into each other as I sit buried in the pages, dissecting every sentence, every comma, reading between the lines until my eyes sting.
My mind keeps drawing pictures, sketching faces and scenes where words fall short, and then I draw them again on paper, trying to make my imagination sharper, more alive.
There isn’t much in the file. Cane never bothers with deep analysis or psychological profiles—he deals in facts, not motives. A name, a date, a kill. That’s all he needs. But I’ve always been good at filling in the blanks. I have a vivid, useful imagination.