Chapter 8
Viviana
I wake up feeling like absolute shit. My head throbs, pounding in time with my racing thoughts. The nightmares were relentless tonight—vivid, suffocating. I must’ve woken up a dozen times, always seeing the same scene, permanently trapped in that hellish memory of Alek. I haven’t thought about it in ages but being around Declan and hearing them talk about the Koslovs must’ve brought it back.
I shake my head, trying to shove it away. It’s too early to be up, but if I st ay in this bed any longer, I’m going to lose my mind.
Throwing the blankets off, I force myself to move. The cold tiles send a shiver up my spine as I shuffle to the bathroom. I step into the shower, hoping the water will wash away the lingering dread, but it doesn’t.
I dress quickly in black sweatpants, a shirt, and shoes. Simple. Comforting. I look in the mirror, looking like shit—like a sick vampire. The hell with it. Opening the door slowly, it’s still dark outside. I take a deep breath, this weird feeling deep in my veins.
The mansion is eerily silent, the kind of quiet that feels too heavy, like the walls themselves are watching. Everyone’s still asleep. It’s a good time to explore this place. I haven’t seen much of it yet—just the basics on the ground floor and Declan’s side of the mansion.
I head upstairs, passing Kian’s floor. The lights are out, and the vibe is similar to Declan’s side—dark and woodsy—but the scent is different. A guard eyes me, and I meet his stare, rolling my eyes as I move past him.
Connor’s floor is the last one. Two guards stand at his door, and I smirk. Did I really scare Connor so much that he needs two guards? The hallway is dimly lit, with the same number of closed doors as the other floors. On the opposite side, a short hallway leads to two more doors.
I push one open and find an office. It has a black Victorian-style desk and a large chair—very old-school. I step inside, noticing two framed photos on the desk. One is of an older couple, and the other is of the entire Callaghan family.
I’d bet this used to be their father’s office. The room feels stripped, with no papers, no files—just a few old paintings hanging on the walls.
I leave and close the door behind me, then move to the door opposite. I open it and flip on the lights. It’s some trophy room.
Three display cabinets line the wall, each belonging to one of the brothers, filled with school trophies. Declan’s cabinet is full of track medals, judo awards, and, of course, a quarterback trophy. Figures. I roll my eyes at the cliché.
Kian’s cabinet has track trophies, too, and some boxing ones. Connor’s is the most surprising, filled with track awards, including a national silver medal.
I must admit, that’s impressive. There are also some certificates on the wall—mainly from Declan, shooting, and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu; damn. I make a mental note to tease him into fighting me in the ring they have at their gym. Declan is massive; it should be fun.
Closing the door, I’m about to head to the stairs when I see a small light. There’s no door that I can see from here, and as I come closer, I notice a small staircase with maybe half a dozen steps.
Odd.
From the outside, the mansion only looks like it has three floors. So why are there more stairs leading up? The lights are off, so I use my phone’s flashlight, following the narrow steps until I reach a small wooden door. It’s unlike the others—smaller, unassuming as if it’s meant to be hidden.
I try the handle. Locked.
But it’s a simple lock. I pull a bobby pin from my hair, my fingers trembling slightly. Let’s see if I’ve still got it. I used to be good at this in my teen years.
Giovanni never really cared about me, but when Silvana and Bruna got their bodyguards, he got me one, too, when I turned six—Carlos. He worked for our family since I can remember.
He’s six feet tall, broad-shouldered, with grey hair and dark eyes that always seemed ready for violence—except when I was around. Whenever I was near, his face would soften, a rare smile just for me.
While my sisters were learning etiquette, Carlos was teaching me what he called fundamental skills: how to fight, pick locks, drive like a maniac, shoot, and even sword fight. That last one? I never quite saw the point, but it was fun.
He was more of a father to me than my flesh and blood ever was. And this skill? It’s come in handy more than once.
A soft click, and the handle turns. Ah! Still got it! I say to myself as I slip inside, and the moment I do, my heart stutters in my chest.
The room is small and claustrophobic. There’s only one window—no curtains, just cold glass reflecting the faint light from my phone. Beneath it, an oak desk, polished and dark, sits in the middle of the room. On it, a small blue velvet box and scattered photos.
I approach slowly, my breath catching as I open the box. Inside is an engagement ring—white gold with a stunning emerald at its centre, catching light. Behind it is a picture of Declan smiling, his arm wrapped around a beautiful blonde woman with striking green eyes. My stomach churns. This is her. I remember her from that party years ago; she was a goddess. She reminds me of Rapunzel.
The room smells like something a woman would wear—fruity and sweet, a scent that lingers in the air like a ghost. Her perfume bottle sits on the desk, alongside more pictures and a pink-and-white silk scarf.
He kept her stuff, at least the things he may be more attached to. Everything is meticulously placed and spotless—not a speck of dust in sight. Candles, half-burnt, surround the room, their
scent mixing with the stale air. He must come here a lot.
I shouldn’t be here. This is too private. It looks like his own personal sanctuary, dedicated to the woman he loved.
I turn to leave, my heart racing, when something catches my eye—a board on the wall. I shift the light from my phone toward it.
A map of the park, schedules, lists of names, a picture of her, and the two men who died with her. Surveillance photos from the park are pinned up, some marked with red crosses. The faces are familiar; they’re all dead.
The Russians. The words are written in bold, red letters, with Aleksandr and Anton’s images right beneath them.
Declan must suspect they are behind the attack. And it had to be them. We’d been at peace for years, but I always had a feeling it was their doing. Aleksandr and Anton—two are insane, acting like animals. Smart as fuck, but animals.
I met Anton a few times when we were teens, back when we went to the same school. He’s polite, even friendly, but there’s always something off. And Alek… I shake my head as I feel my throat burning. The way Alek looked at you like he saw right through you—his eyes cold and soulless.
Looking down at the board, I see a picture of my father and other family members, including me and my sisters. Did he suspect us, too? That’s crazy. Why would any of us kill his fiancée?
I guess when you’re as hurt as he is, everyone becomes a suspect. Sadly, they never caught who did it.
There’s a small shelf under the board with a folder. It’s the police case folder; my breath catches in my throat as I step closer, my pulse pounding in my ears. There’s a date scrawled in bold black letters: October 31st. Three years ago.
The day she died. My birthday.
There are pictures of it; my hand trembling as I pick one—her body on the muddy floor, her hair painted in blood, her clothes wet and dirty, the blood—oh my god, so much blood. I suck in a breath, trying to hold my sob, which is rising in my throat.
Suddenly, the room closes in on me. My chest tightens, each breath coming in shorter, panicked bursts. My heart pounds so violently. No. It can’t be , I murmur to myself, my voice weak and shaky.
My hands tremble as I reach up, clutching my chest, trying to steady the frantic beat. I can’t breathe. The walls spin around me, narrowing, closing in, suffocating. It’s all too much.
A hand pulls my arm and slams me against the wall, my body bouncing off the wall with the force. “What the fuck are you doing here?” I can’t catch my breath, and tears form in my eyes, but I shake them off. Declan looks feral; his eyes are pure rage. His voice is a low rumble, his words coming deep from his chest, almost like a growl. He’s only wearing grey sweatpants, shirtless, all his torso tattoos on display under his tense muscles. I don’t realize how bloody and horrific most of them are.
“Let me go, Declan,” my voice hitching but serious as I try to push him away. He doesn’t move an inch; his body tenses as my hands hit his chest.
“You need to learn your place, Viviana; I’m sick of this shit.” His hands clench harder around my arm.
“What. The. Fuck. Are. You. Doing?” he repeats, punctuating each word with anger, a dark growl emanating from within him that makes me vibrate in fear.
His eyes fall on the photo in my hands, darkening with rage. “Viviana, drop the fucking photo,” he snarls, each word low and vibrating with barely restrained fury.
My fingers flinch as I release the picture, letting it flutter to the floor. He steps closer, his breathing heavy, chest rising and falling with each laboured breath. His eyes burn with anger, but there’s something else, something more profound, pain. And behind that, tears he refuses to shed.
“Declan,” Kian’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade, calm but cold, detached in a way that sends a shiver down my spine. “Let her go, brother.”
But Declan doesn’t move. His gaze never leaves me, and I hold it, refusing to look away. I can feel the heat of his fury radiating off him, suffocating. He’s close enough to touch, close enough to destroy me if he wants to.
“Get the fuck out,” he spits, releasing me with a sharp shove.
I don’t hesitate. I turn and bolt, my feet pounding against the hardwood as I fly down the stairs. My heart is racing, a violent thud in my chest.
His voice echoes behind me, dangerously sharp: “Lock her up, Kian, now!”
Panic surges through me, adrenaline flooding my veins. Not happening. I push harder, running faster, my mind spinning out of control. I catch sight of a guard at the corner, his head swivelling toward me in confusion. I don’t have time.
I grab a vase from the hallway table and smash it against his skull. He crumples to the ground with a groan.
I barely have a second to think. I snatch his gun, tucking it under my pants, and dart down the stairs toward the nearest window on the ground floor.
I hear shouts from behind me as the guard I knocked down calls for help. I choke on my breath as I throw it open, clambering out. The cool night air hits my skin like a shock, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.
I sprint toward the left side of the estate, where the trees are thicker and the shadows darker. There’s a lake nearby, the only place in the estate without walls. If I can make it there, I can swim my way out of here. I push my legs harder, the muscles burning, but I don’t slow down.
My mind races faster than my feet, looping back to that date. October 31st. It can’t be. It can’t. I thought she died November 1st: that’s what my father told us. Not the 31st.
I shake my head violently, trying to clear the fog settling in. My breathing is ragged, choking me as panic rises in my chest, threatening to pull me under. Tears blur my vision, but I keep running, pushing through the suffocating fear. I have to get out of here. I have to.
I spot the lake in the distance, the sound of voices shouting echoing, though they feel far away. A dog barks from the other side, its bark sharp and urgent.
Suddenly, I trip over a tree stump, my head slamming into the ground with a jarring thud. Pain radiates through my skull, but I shake it off, wiping away the blood seeping from the gash on my forehead as I push myself to keep running.
I will leave this place tonight!