Chapter 28
I push through the heavy doors of the FBI building into Chicago’s cooling air.
Sunset bleeds across the sky, marking twelve hours since everything changed.
Twelve hours of statements, evidence processing, and endless questions.
My body aches with every movement, a reminder of my father’s fury before the FBI stormed his mansion.
The memory hits sharp and clear: his fist connecting with my face, the certainty of death in that moment before my vision faded.
Then, shouting, chaos, and FBI agents flooding the room.
The operation moved with military precision—my father in cuffs, evidence secured, the empire I’d spent years investigating finally crumbling.
I lean against a concrete pillar, touching my swollen eye. I press my fingertips against my temple, remembering the blur of activity after my father hit me. Poetic justice, perhaps, that his arrest happened in the same room where he’d terrorized my mother.
My ribs protest as I shift position against the pillar.
Each breath reminds me of his final act of violence—a father’s farewell gift to his daughter.
The EMT had cleaned the blood from my face with gentle efficiency, his concerned frown deepening as he checked my injuries.
“Hospital,” he’d insisted. I’d refused. There wasn’t time, not when everything was finally breaking open.
I remember sitting in the back of the ambulance, the orange shock blanket scratching against my skin.
My contact appeared—Agent Rivera—her usual stern expression softened with something like respect.
My first question was about Remy and his team.
My throat tightens now, remembering those moments of uncertainty.
I’d made sure to include Declan, Nolan, and Greyson in my report to the FBI, marking them as allies in the operation.
They weren’t criminals—they were trying to save Remy while I confronted my father.
The wait had been excruciating. Every second stretched as Agent Rivera coordinated with her team through her earpiece.
Then, through the chaos of emergency vehicles and FBI agents, I caught sight of Declan.
His slight nod from across the driveway released the breath I’d been holding since entering my father’s house. Remy was alive.
My legs shake as I remember that moment of relief. Until then, I hadn’t realized how deeply fear had gripped me—fear that my father’s final act would be taking Remy from me. That nod from Declan had broken something inside me. For the first time since this all began, I could breathe.
I hadn’t seen my father since the agents dragged him away. His screams echoed through the mansion’s halls, a fitting end to his reign of terror. When Agent Rivera asked if I wanted to speak with him, my response was immediate. “No.” The word came out flat, final.
The rage that had driven me for so long—through sleepless nights of investigation, through years of building evidence—felt hollow now.
That burning need for justice that had consumed me since finding my mother’s body had transformed into something else.
Not peace exactly, but perhaps the beginning of closure.
One small blessing was that throughout the entire situation, Marcus didn’t think of sending men to kill Terrell Heath in that safehouse Remy and Marcus had sent him to.
A slip of the mind allowed the poor man to survive and Agent Rivera to have a key witness with a wealth of information and evidence.
But now? That chapter is closing. The fury fueling my investigation, my determination to expose his trafficking ring, feels distant.
Like a wound finally beginning to heal. He is no longer my father—perhaps he never truly was.
Just a monster wearing the mask of family, finally stripped bare for the world to see.
Movement catches my eye. A tall figure leans against a black car across the street, his stance casual but alert.
Declan. Even in the growing darkness, I recognize his military bearing.
His presence means news about Remy and my heart stutters in my chest.
I hurry across the street toward Declan, ignoring the protest of my aching ribs. His expression darkens as he takes in my injuries, jaw clenching tight. “Jesus Christ, Eve,” he says, his voice thick with anger. “Your face looks like it met a freight train.”
“Save the concern. Where’s Remy? How is he?”
Declan pushes off the car, his height forcing me to tilt my head up. “Alive. Though Marcus did his best to change that. Multiple bruised ribs, sprained shoulder, several wounds, concussion—”
“Take me to the hospital. Now.” I move toward the passenger door, but Declan’s low laugh stops me.
“Yeah, about that. The stubborn bastard made it exactly twenty minutes at the hospital before trying to break out.” He crosses his arms. “Nearly took out two nurses and a security guard trying to get to you.”
“What?” The moment his mind cleared enough to think, he lost his mind. Kept insisting he needed to get to you.” Declan’s mouth twists. “We had to choose between sedating him or moving him somewhere he’d actually stay put. Greyson suggested the safe house.”
“So you just let him leave?” My voice rises with incredulity.
“Let him?” Declan barks out a harsh laugh.
“Nolan practically had to tackle him. In the end, it was easier to bring him back to the apartment where we could keep an eye on him.
At least there, he has proper medical care without trying to escape every five minutes.
I slam my hand against his chest. “Drive. Now.”
“Always so polite, Consoli.” He opens the car door with exaggerated courtesy. “Though I should warn you—he’s going to lose his shit when he sees your face.”
“Just drive the damn car, Declan.”
“He slides behind the wheel, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Yes, ma’am. Though I hope you realize the irony here—you both nearly got yourselves killed trying to protect each other.”
“Shut up and drive.”
“As you wish.” His grin turns wicked. “Though I have to say, you two deserve each other. Equally stubborn, equally reckless—”
“I will shoot you.”
“Now that’s just hurtful.” He starts the engine. “After all we’ve been through together.”
I roll my eyes at Declan’s comment, immediately regretting the movement as pain shoots through my face. "Fuck," I mutter, pressing my fingers against my temple.
“Easy there, warrior princess.” Declan’s tone shifts, genuine concern bleeding through his usual sarcasm. “About earlier—thank you. For making sure the FBI knew we weren’t the bad guys.”
“What, worried about prison orange clashing with your complexion?”
“Always thinking of my fashion choices. I’m touched.” He navigates through evening traffic with practiced ease. “But seriously, you managed to coordinate all this while dealing with Marcus’s betrayal and your father’s threats. Color me impressed.”
I lean back against the leather seat. “I’ve spent years building connections with people who couldn’t be bought. I found the ones with actual integrity, which is a rare commodity in this city. Especially since so many parties are implicated.”
“No shit. However, I’m curious how you managed to trigger such a rapid response from the feds.”
I smile despite the pain. “Building trust, creating a network. When everything started falling apart, I had people ready to move.”
Declan whistles low. “Playing the long game while daddy dearest thought he had you cornered. Didn’t see that coming.”
“That was rather the point.” I shift, wincing at the pressure on my ribs. “Though I have to admit, having you three show up was a surprise. Remy never mentioned his connection to a team of special forces rejects.”
“Rejects?” Declan presses a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I’ll have you know we prefer the term ‘selectively unemployed badasses.’ And we are friends; we would have helped the moment we knew.”
“Is that what you call it? I thought you were just Remy’s personal collection of violent misfits.”
“Says the woman who just orchestrated the takedown of Chicago’s biggest trafficking ring.” His grin turns sharp. “Face it, Consoli—you fit right in with us deviants.”
“God help me,” I mutter, but I can’t hide my own smile. “Some people are really good at playing the long game. I just happened to be better at it this time.”
“So, the media circus,” Declan drawls, breaking our momentary silence. “That was a neat touch. Keeping the feds honest?” I trace the condensation on the window, watching Chicago’s lights blur past.
“More like insurance. The moment anything happens to that evidence, every major news outlet gets their own copy.”
“Paranoid much?”
“Try realistic.” I turn to face him.
“The moment you trust someone completely is the moment they can destroy you. So I made sure the truth would get out, one way or another.” Declan whistles low, shaking his head.
“Damn. No wonder you and Remy are perfect for each other. Both of you with your contingency plans and trust issues.”
I frown, studying his profile. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” His fingers drum against the steering wheel.
“Just… interesting parallels.”
“Don’t play coy, please.” He smirks but keeps his eyes on the road.
“Let’s just say I’ve known Remy for years, and I’ve never seen him this twisted up over anyone. The man practically went feral when Marcus mentioned your name during interrogation.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“And you’re fishing.” He shoots me a sideways glance.
“Though I have to admit, watching him lose his carefully maintained control was… educational.”
“Educational how?”
“The thing about Remy,” Declan’s voice takes on an edge, “is that he never loses control. Never shows his hand. But you?” He laughs darkly. “You’ve got him breaking his own rules, taking risks he’d never consider. It’s fascinating, really.”
“You make it sound like I’m some kind of experiment.”
“More like a force of nature.” His smile turns sharp. “The man who plans for every contingency, who never acts without calculating every angle, threw himself into Marcus’s trap because you were in danger.”
“I didn’t ask him to do that.”
“That’s exactly my point, sweetheart.” Declan’s voice carries a note of genuine amazement.
“He did it anyway. No plan, no backup, just blind fucking instinct to protect you. So unlike him to be at the forefront. Remy prefers the shadows, after all.”
The weight of his words settles in my chest, heavy and uncomfortable. I stare out the window, considering Declan’s words carefully.
“You don’t need to worry about Remy’s reputation. I made sure my investigation never included his name or activities.”
“That so?” “Years ago, I kept certain names from my records. People who…” I pause, choosing my words.
“People who operate in necessary shadows.” Declan’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel.
“You’re a strange one, Consoli. Most journalists would kill for that kind of exclusive. The notorious Remy Harding, Chicago’s shadow king, fixer extraordinaire.”
“Glory was never the point.”
“No?” He casts a sideways glance at me. “What about exposure? Recognition?”
“Justice was enough.”
“And you’re just… accepting. Of who he is. What he does.” His tone sharpens. “Did he tell you everything?”
“Yes.” My voice remains steady. “Every dark detail.” The car jerks to a stop at a red light. Declan turns to face me fully, his expression transformed. Gone is the playful banter, replaced by lethal intensity. His eyes hold the cold calculation of a predator.
“Listen carefully.” His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “If you ever use what you know against him, if you hurt him in any way—”
“Don’t,” I cut him off, matching his steel with my own. “You want to threaten me? Fine. But understand something—I judge people by their true nature, not their reputation. Even if that nature is dark as night.”
We lock eyes in the dim car, neither backing down. Then, like a switch being flipped, Declan’s tension evaporates. A genuine smile spreads across his face.
“Well, shit.” He laughs, shaking his head. “That’s exactly what I was hoping you’d say.”
“You tested me.”
“Had to be sure.” He turns back to the wheel as the light changes. “Remy deserves someone who sees him. All of him.”
Declan’s words echo in my mind as streetlights flicker across the car’s interior.
Remy deserves someone who sees him. The phrase burrows deep, unearthing memories I’ve been trying to suppress.
His face was raw with emotion before he left for my father’s estate as he declared his love.
Not a calculated admission, but something torn from his very core.
My fingers trace the bruise on my face, each throb a reminder of the darkness we both operate in. Remy isn’t the only one who dwells in the shadows. I’ve spent years building a network of informants, trading favors, and manipulating situations to expose corruption.
My methods aren’t always clean. How many times have I justified means with ends? The hypocrisy of my earlier moral high ground hits hard. I’ve judged Remy for his control, his manipulation, his comfort with darkness.
Yet, haven’t I manipulated my way through this investigation? Used people’s weaknesses, exploited their fears? My hands aren’t exactly clean.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Declan mutters, turning down a narrow street. I ignore him, lost in the realization of my own complexity. Remy might revel in control, but I’ve orchestrated an entire network of allies and enemies like pieces on a chessboard. We are more alike than I’ve wanted to admit.
His love declaration plays again in my memory.
The raw vulnerability in his eyes was so at odds with his usual calculated demeanor.
He’s dropped every defense, knowing it could cost him everything.
Not just his life but the carefully constructed walls he’s built around himself.
I press my forehead against the cool window, watching Chicago’s shadows deepen. Remy won’t change—can’t change.
His nature is woven into his very being. The control, the darkness, the calculated manipulation of power. But then again, so is mine. I’ve just dressed it up in prettier words: justice, truth, exposure. I close my eyes, feeling the weight of truth settle in my chest.
Can I accept Remy? The real question is: can I accept myself? We are both creatures of shadow and light, manipulation and truth, control and chaos. Perhaps that’s why we fit—two broken pieces creating something whole.