Chapter 23
Rain stripes across the tinted windows, each droplet catching the glow of passing streetlights. Marcus hasn’t spoken since we left the secured safehouse twenty minutes ago. His silence—usually a comfort between us—feels wrong tonight.
“Status check,” I say, my voice cutting through the dense quiet.
Marcus’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “All clear, sir.” His grip tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles bleaching white against the leather.
I check my phone. Eve’s face flashes across the screen, a candid shot I took while she slept. I silence it, ignoring the twist in my gut. She’s safe in my apartment, surrounded by the best security money can buy. Still, leaving her feels like severing a limb.
“You’ve been checking the mirrors every thirty seconds,” I say to Marcus. “Want to tell me what you’re seeing?”
“Nothing concrete.” He adjusts the rearview mirror again. “Just… patterns feeling off tonight.”
I lean forward, studying the rain-blurred traffic behind us. No obvious tails, but Marcus’s instincts rarely miss. The last time he was this tense, we lost two men in a past operation.
The Montoni estate appears through the downpour, a monument to old money and older secrets.
Four unfamiliar guards man the gate, their stances too perfect, movements too synchronized.
These aren’t Montoni’s usual thugs—they move like military.
My mind catalogs details: bulges beneath rain-slicked jackets suggesting body armor, the way they position themselves to cover multiple angles.
“New faces,” Marcus murmurs.
“All of them.” I straighten my tie. “Running facial recognition?”
“Started when we turned onto the drive. No matches yet.”
The gate swings open with a mechanical whine. Marcus guides the car forward, but his usual smooth acceleration is absent. He’s keeping space and maintaining options. The gravel drive crunches under our tires, each turn taking us deeper into the estate’s shadows.
“Sir,” Marcus’s voice drops lower. “We can still—”
“No,” I cut him off, though his concern mirrors the warning bells in my head. “We play this through.”
The manor looms ahead, its windows gleaming like predator’s eyes in the rain. I’ve walked into danger countless times, but tonight feels different. Every instinct honed over decades screams: trap.
The front doors open, and I step out into the rain. Marcus appears at my side, umbrella raised with military precision. His body angles slightly in front of mine—another break from protocol that speaks volumes.
“Gentlemen.” Gerard, Montoni’s head butler for twenty years, meets us at the entrance. His usual polish seems strained tonight. “Mr. Montoni is expecting you in his study.”
I scan the foyer as we enter, cataloging changes since my last visit. Two new security cameras in the corners, recently installed judging by the fresh paint around their mounts. The marble floor reflects our footsteps, each click echoing off ancestral portraits that line the walls.
My gaze catches on a particular painting—a young girl with Eve’s eyes staring back at me. The weight of what happened in these halls settles like ice in my veins.
“Quite the upgrade to security,” I comment, noting a guard stationed by the grand staircase. His stance is too rigid, hands positioned for a quick draw.
Gerard’s smile tightens. “Recent improvements, sir. Mr. Montoni values his privacy.”
“Among other things.” The words slip out before I can catch them, earning a sharp look from Marcus.
We turn down the east wing, where heavy curtains block most of the evening light.
What filters through the bulletproof windows creates distorted shadows across Persian rugs.
I count four more cameras, three visible guards and estimate at least two more out of sight, based on the floor plan I memorized years ago.
“Sir,” Marcus murmurs, so low only I can hear. “The third door on the left is usually clear. Service stairs beyond.”
I give him the barest nod. The fact that he’s feeding me escape routes—something we haven’t done since my early days—confirms we’re both reading the same warnings in this situation.
“Mr. Montoni apologizes for the late hour,” Gerard says, stopping before the study doors. “He insisted the matter couldn’t wait until morning.”
“Of course.” I straighten my cuffs, a habit that helps me focus. “Matters of family rarely do.”
Gerard flinches at the word “family.” Interesting.
He opens the study doors and the scent of cigars and leather washes over me. I step inside, hyperaware of Marcus positioning himself exactly two steps behind me—close enough to react, far enough not to crowd.
The study feels different now, knowing what Liv endured here. Every leather-bound book and crystal decanter speaks of carefully maintained appearances hiding rot beneath. Even the placement of Montoni’s desk, positioned to dominate the room, reveals the man’s need for control over his domain.
Montoni rises from his leather chair, a practiced smile stretching across his weathered face. “Remy. Thank you for coming at such a late hour.”
“Your invitation seemed urgent.” I settle into one of the leather chairs across from his desk, noting how the study’s dim lighting casts shadows across the room’s dark wood paneling. Marcus remains by the door, a silent sentinel.
“Urgent? Perhaps.” Montoni picks up the crystal decanter. “Scotch?”
“Please.” I watch him pour, studying the steady movement of his hands. No tremor, no hesitation. He’s either truly at ease or exceptionally skilled at appearing so.
“I wanted to personally thank you for handling that… delicate matter we discussed.” He hands me the glass, his signet ring catching the light. “The evidence you provided was quite thorough.”
“I’m nothing if not meticulous.” I take a measured sip, letting the smoky liquid coat my tongue. “The photos, the blood work, the death certificate—all properly documented and filed.”
“Indeed.” He returns to his chair, leather creaking beneath his weight. “Tell me, did she suffer?”
The question hangs between us. I maintain eye contact, remembering the carefully staged photos of Eve’s “execution.” “It was quick, clean. Professional, as requested.”
“Hmm.” He picks up a folder from his desk, aged leather embossed with the Montoni family crest. “You know, I’ve always admired your attention to detail, Remy. The way you construct your deceptions. Layer upon layer of carefully crafted evidence.”
Something in his tone sets off warning bells. I keep my expression neutral, even as I catalog the subtle shifts in the room—the guard by the bookcase adjusting his stance, the way Montoni’s fingers trace the folder’s edge.
“Each piece fits perfectly together,” he continues, opening the folder with deliberate slowness. “The blood samples, the security footage, all authentic, all verified.” His smile sharpens. “Almost too perfect, wouldn’t you say?”
“I pride myself on thoroughness.” My grip tightens fractionally on the glass. “You paid for perfection.”
“That I did.” He removes a photograph from the folder and studies it.
I maintain my neutral expression as Montoni sets the photo down, though bile rises in my throat. The scotch turns to ash on my tongue.
“About the payment—” I begin, but he waves his hand dismissively.
“Tell me, Remy, have you ever seen true beauty?” Montoni leans back, swirling his drink. “You must have since you know Eve.” I fight to keep a straight face. Now that all the cards are on the table, the stakes became even higher. I have to win.
“My Lina, she was exquisite. Liv has her eyes, you know. That same defiant spark.”
My fingers tighten around the glass as the man points at a picture—Lina Montoni, radiant in a summer dress, holding a young Eve. Before Ano destroyed them both.
“The resemblance is striking,” I say, keeping my voice detached. Professional. Empty.
“Lina was… passionate.” His lips curl into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Such fire in bed. Makes me wonder if my dear Liv inherited that particular trait.”
The crystal creaks under my grip. I force my fingers to relax, channeling years of practiced control into maintaining my mask. Eve’s broken voice echoes in my head, describing how she found her mother’s body, the staged suicide that fooled everyone but her.
“I wouldn’t know,” I reply coldly. “I ensure clean kills, nothing more.”
“Come now.” Montoni’s eyes gleam with malice. “A beautiful woman like that? Surely you sampled the goods before disposal.” He leans forward, dropping his voice. “Did she beg like her mother?”
The words hit like physical blows. I picture Eve’s face, imagine her terror in her final moments—the fiction I sold him. “I don’t mix business with pleasure.”
“Pity.” He drains his glass. “Lina’s last moments were… memorable. Such lovely sounds she made as the life drained from her.” His gaze fixes on me, searching for a reaction. “Before I arranged her final pose, of course. The police are so quick to accept a wealthy man’s grief.”
I meet his stare with practiced indifference, though every muscle in my body screams to end him. “The contract was fulfilled. I believe we’re finished here.”
“Perhaps.” Montoni’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Though I do miss hearing a woman’s screams echo through these halls. Reminds me of better days.”
I maintain my composure, but inside, my control splinters. Every word confirms what Liv endured in this house, every casual confession feeding the rage I carefully contain. But I can’t break character. Not now. Not when her life depends on my performance.
“She takes her coffee black now,” Montoni muses, examining his empty glass. “Two sugars when stressed. Watching her through your kitchen cameras, pacing at 3 a.m.—reminds me of her mother’s restless habits.”
Ice spreads through my veins. Those details… impossible, unless—