Chapter 22 Zara
The Hinsdale estate I visited during summers as a child hasn’t changed.
The driveway is still a winding stretch of quiet stone, the hedges trimmed into perfect, soulless symmetry.
I only begin to see the differences when we close in on the house.
The fountain in the circular drive stands dry and cracked now, its once-grand display reduced to silence.
The paint on the two-story high columns is chipping.
Even the air starts to shift into something different. Stale, like grief wrapped in money.
They bring me in through the back door like cargo. No words. No apologies. It’s not like they need them. The message is loud enough. They found me and I’ve been caught in their trap. And they know I’m not going anywhere.
The house still smells faintly of his cologne and cigars. Every detail is frozen in time, like it’s been preserved for this exact moment—waiting for me to return. Either by my own will, or by his command.
They don’t take me to my old bedroom. That’s long gone, probably gutted the day I ran.
They lead me down the long west hallway instead, and show me into a guest room—one I don’t recognize anymore.
Different from what it looked like after my mother decorated it.
The space is too clean. Too neutral. The kind of room they put people in when they don’t plan to let them stay, but aren’t ready to let them leave either.
There’s no lock on the door. There doesn’t need to be.
Locks aren’t how he traps people. He uses debt.
Shame. Force. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare out the tall window at the garden, past the stone fence that borders the estate.
I can’t see the city beyond it—only trees, and a strip of sky that feels too far away.
I tell myself not to cry. Not here. Not now. I hold it together long enough to steady my breath, but the ache under my ribs doesn’t fade. It settles deeper, heavier, pressing in against my lungs like a reminder that the only family I had left is gone.
A quiet knock comes just as I’m pulling myself upright. A maid opens the door—young, maybe twenty, with soft features and eyes that never lift from the floor.
“He wants to see you in the study,” she says, voice soft.
I follow her down the staircase, past paintings I once stared at with suspicion, wondering which of the men on the walls I would eventually be forced to mimic. Their eyes all look the same—cold, empty, proud. Now I know why.
The study is all dark wood, leather furniture, a fireplace no one ever lights. He stands behind the desk, a glass of something expensive in his hand like it’s just another Tuesday.
“You look different than you did seven years ago,” he says, his eyes fixed on something on the desk in front of him, voice deceptively casual.
“I look like hell, thanks to you” I answer, arms crossed tight over my chest, my voice flat and unforgiving.
He finally lifts his gaze. There’s a flicker of something—recognition, amusement—as he offers a small, insincere smile. “Fair enough.”
I don’t sit. He hasn’t offered, and I wouldn’t do it if he had. Sitting in this room feels like surrender, like folding to a man who’s always thrived on having the upper hand. It felt that way when I was eighteen. It still does now.
“I have my suspicions,” I say, keeping my voice level. “But I want to hear it from you. Why am I here?”
“I already told you.” He leans back, steepling his fingers in front of him. “I knew you’d come back for your brother.”
My stomach clenches. “You used him,” I bite out. “Didn’t care if he lived, as long as it brought me back. Now tell me the truth. Why?”
He exhales through his nose, the barest sound of condescension. “Like you said yourself, I believe you already know why.”
My jaw locks. Fury simmers beneath my skin. “You knew he was vulnerable.”
“I let him make his own choices.”
“You let him die.”
He moves from behind the desk, every step calculated. “He was weak,” he says, pausing a few feet from me. “I told you before, he was too loyal to you. He still spoke about you, even after you deserted our family. That kind of softness doesn’t last in our world.”
My breath stutters, but I don’t let it show. “He was loyal to me because I didn’t treat him like he was disposable.”
He raises an eyebrow, like I’ve said something entertaining. “You think I used him? I didn’t force him into anything. He said he wanted out. I gave him one last job. He didn’t even bother to hire his own protection. That part was all him.”
“You withdrew protection,” I snap. “You left him wide open. You made sure he was in the right place at the wrong time.”
There’s a beat of silence before his voice drops, quiet and almost smug.
“Another example of his inability to lead, you need to see the threat before it shows itself. And now you’ve done the same.
You came back to Chicago when you must have known I would be looking for you. Just like I knew you would.”
The truth of it hits hard, sharp behind my ribs. I walked straight into his trap. And the worst part? I knew.
“You’re a disgusting excuse for a father.” I spit.
“I simply moved pieces,” he says, his tone as cool as ever. “The board was already set.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides, nails biting deep into my palms. “What now?” I ask, anger and grief fusing in my throat. “Do I rot in this house while you decide what I’m worth?”
He lifts a shoulder, casual. “You’ll stay. Eat. Sleep. When you’re ready, we’ll talk.”
“And if I’m never ready?”
His expression doesn’t shift. “You will be,” he says with maddening certainty. “Because this time, there’s nowhere left for you to run. And no one’s coming to rescue you.”
I feel the impact of those words like a slap. But I don’t react. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
Instead, I lift my chin and hold his gaze until he turns and walks out, leaving the door wide open, as if to mock me. As if to say: go ahead, try.
I stay frozen for a moment, then let myself breathe.
The tears come later when I’m alone, as I sit on the bed and finally let the truth sink in. My brother is dead. My father is the devil I always feared he was. And I’m back in a house I swore I’d never see again, this time with no escape plan.