Chapter 26
The gravel crunches beneath my heels as I step out of the car. Greyson’s silence speaks volumes as he closes the door behind me, melting into the shadows with practiced ease. The sound of each step echoes in my chest, a rhythm that matches my thundering heartbeat.
I focus on my breathing, just like I learned in war zones.
Inhale. Count to four. Exhale. The familiar exercise centers me, even as memories of this place threaten to overwhelm my senses.
I’m not that scared little girl anymore, running from shadows in endless corridors.
The fury in my veins burns hot enough to chase away old fears.
The estate looms before me, a monument to my father’s corruption dressed in limestone and pride.
Security lights cast harsh shadows across manicured lawns, transforming familiar topiary into lurking threats.
Cameras track my approach—I count three visible ones, knowing dozens more are hidden from view.
“Miss Consoli.” Greyson’s low murmur grounds me. “Heads up.”
I give him the barest nod, squaring my shoulders as I hear him get back in the car and drive away. The mansion looms before me, its windows gleaming like predatory eyes in the darkness. Each step forward feels like walking through molasses, memories threatening to drag me under.
The gravel path stretches endlessly, each crunch of my heels a thunderclap in the oppressive silence.
My fingers clench around my bag, knuckles white with tension.
So many years since I fled this place, yet nothing has changed.
The manicured gardens still reek of artificial perfection, hiding rot beneath their pristine surface.
The front door opens before I can even knock. “Miss Montoni,” Gerard’s voice slithers through the night air. “Welcome home.”
I grind my teeth at that name—my father’s name, a collar he tried to chain me with. The butler stands at attention, his pressed suit and perfectly styled hair a mask for the snake beneath. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes, never has.
“Gerard.” I keep my voice ice-cold, channeling every ounce of Remy’s controlled fury. “I see father still keeps his pet around.”
His polite mask cracks for just a moment, hatred flashing in those pale eyes. “Your father awaits you in his study.” He gestures toward the heavy oak doors. “Shall I announce you?”
“Don’t bother.” I brush past him, the familiar scent of leather and polish assaulting my senses. “I remember the way.”
“As you wish, Miss Montoni.” The title drips with disdain.
I pause, turning to face him with all the contempt I’ve learned to wield. “That’s Ms. Consoli to you, Gerard. I buried the Montoni name with my mother.”
His answering smile is pure venom. “Of course, Miss... Consoli. How… progressive of you.”
The exchange leaves me trembling with rage, but I force it down. Remy needs me focused, not lost in old grudges. I take another step forward, then another, each one bringing me closer to the monster who calls himself my father.
The hallway stretches before me, each step on Italian marble echoing with memories I’ve spent years trying to bury. Family portraits line the walls—carefully curated lies frozen in gilded frames.
My fingers brush against the wainscoting, muscle memory guiding me through this maze of wealth and secrets. The air still carries that artificial jasmine scent my father insists on, masking something darker beneath.
I reach the study door, its carved surface as imposing as ever. How many times had I stood here, heart pounding, waiting to face his disappointment or wrath? The brass handle feels cold against my palm.
Inside, nothing has changed. The antique globe still commands its place of honor on the mahogany desk.
I remember spending hours spinning it, my small fingers tracing paths across continents, plotting imaginary escapes.
Paris, Tokyo, anywhere but here. Mother would find me sometimes, adding her own dreams to mine in whispered conspiracies.
“The prodigal daughter returns.”
My father’s voice slices through my memories. I don’t turn to face him yet, my eyes fixed on my mother’s chair—that wing-backed leather piece by the fireplace. I see her there still, hands clutching each other until her knuckles go white, nodding along to whatever new demand he made of her.
“That’s the Monet she loved, isn’t it?” I gesture to the water lilies that hang above the fireplace, my voice steady despite the rage burning in my throat. “The one you bought to apologize after breaking her arm?”
“You always had such an active imagination, Eve.” He moves into my peripheral vision, crystal tumbler in hand. “Your mother was clumsy. The doctors all agreed.”
“The doctors you paid?” I turn to face him finally, eight years of fury coiled tight in my chest. “Like the ones who covered up her ‘accident’?”
His smile doesn’t waver. “You’ve grown harder, daughter. Less… pliable.”
“I learned from the best.” My eyes drift to the globe again. “Though I suppose I should thank you. Every bruise, every lie—they taught me exactly who you are.”
“And who am I?” He takes a measured sip of his scotch.
“A monster who wears Armani. One who’s about to lose everything.”
I finally turn to face my father, the man I’ve spent eight years trying to forget. Time has carved new lines into his face, streaked silver through his dark hair. The changes don’t make him look distinguished—they’ve only hardened him, like granite weathering into sharper edges.
His eyes are the same cold blue I remember, the color of arctic ice. No warmth exists there, no hint of paternal affection. Just calculation and control, watching me like I’m another asset to be managed.
“You look tired, Ano.” I use his first name deliberately, watching it hit its mark. A muscle twitches in his jaw—the same tell I remember from childhood. “Running a trafficking empire must be exhausting.”
He takes another sip of scotch, the crystal catching light as he moves. The familiar scent of cedar and tobacco clings to his tailored suit, mixing with that artificial jasmine air freshener he still uses. The combination turns my stomach.
“Eight years,” he muses, studying me over the rim of his glass. “And you still haven’t learned respect.”
“Respect?” The word tastes bitter. “You beat that out of me long ago. Along with any illusion that you were worthy of it.”
His answering smile is serpentine, familiar in its cruelty. The expression pulls at new wrinkles around his mouth, deepening shadows that age has carved into his features. But his posture remains rigid, imperial—a king in his castle, untouchable and unmoved by my defiance.
He laughs, the sound as hollow as the man himself. “Bold words from someone whose lover is bleeding in my basement.”
I don’t flinch, though my heart screams for Remy. “Still hiding behind other people’s pain? Some things never change.”
The mahogany desk between us gleams like spilled blood in the lamplight. Ano’s cigar smoke coils through the air, a poisonous reminder of countless nights spent trembling before his judgment. My fingers brush the edge of his desk—smooth, perfect, just like the lies he’s built his empire on.
“You could have had everything,” he says, voice dripping with disappointment. “My empire, the connections, the respect your position demands.” His fingers drum against the leather armrest of his chair. “Instead, you chose to play vengeful reporter for nothing. A stupid quest.”
I taste copper on my tongue, fury building with each patronizing word. The study closes in around us, decades of power concentrated in first editions, Ming vases, and that damn Monet on the wall.
“Low profile?” I spit the words back at him. “Like Mother kept a low profile while you broke her piece by piece?”
His eyes narrow, arctic cold. “Your mother was weak. I expected better from you.”
“Better?” The laugh tears from my throat. “You mean more controllable. More willing to ignore the bodies you’ve buried under your success.”
He rises, and for a moment, I’m eight years old again. But I’m not that child anymore. I hold my ground as he circles the desk.
“Stupid quest, you call it?” My voice stays steady despite the rage burning in my chest. “Those girls you traffic have names. Families. Dreams. Just like Mother had before you destroyed her.”
“Business is business, Eve.” His casual tone makes my skin crawl. “The world runs on supply and demand. I simply facilitate—”
“You facilitate nightmares,” I cut him off. “You package human beings like cattle and sell them to monsters who wear suits just like yours.”
He stops before me, close enough that I smell the alcohol on his breath. “And what do you think exposing this will accomplish? You’ll destroy thousands of jobs and partnerships built over decades. For what? Some misguided sense of justice?”
I meet his gaze, refusing to flinch from the coldness there. “You’ve twisted our family blood into poison, Father. I’ve returned to cut it out.”
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Such dramatic flair. You’ve inherited your mother’s… theatrical tendencies.”
The tension coils tighter as I face him, my fists clenched so hard my nails bite into my palms. Memories surge like a tide—Mother’s quiet sobs echoing through these same walls, the careful way she’d cover bruises with makeup, her trembling hands as she’d smooth my hair.
“Why did you kill her?” The accusation tears from my throat, sharp enough to cut.
His expression shifts, irritation crackling beneath his practiced calm.
I step closer, refusing to yield an inch. “What drove you to destroy her, abuse her?” My voice shakes with fury. “Was she just a pawn you used to expand your empire? Or was she a trophy you flaunted to elites who demanded perfection?”