Chapter 29
Pain is the first thing I register—a dull roar spreading across my ribs like wildfire every time I breathe too deep.
My shoulder protests when I shift even slightly against the mattress.
Everything feels heavy, weighted down by the lingering effects of whatever sedatives they pumped into me after dragging me out of that hellhole.
My vision swims as I force my eyes open.
The bedroom comes into focus slowly—sleek lines, muted tones, everything sharp-edged luxury.
I recognize the safehouse apartment in which I saw Liv last. The antiseptic tang hanging in the air mixes with the faint metallic bite of dried blood; it turns my stomach in ways I can’t afford to acknowledge.
I drag in a shallow breath through clenched teeth and catalog my injuries automatically—multiple bruised ribs screaming with every movement; my left shoulder feels like someone took a hammer to it; bandages pull tight against wounds that haven’t had time to fully scab over yet.
Concussion, too—I can feel it in the way the fading light from the windows needles at my skull like broken glass.
And then I see her.
Liv sits slumped forward in the chair beside my bed, one arm curled protectively around herself even in sleep. Her head rests on the mattress near my hand as if she fell there mid-watch. But it’s not her posture that sets something dark clawing its way up my chest—it’s her face.
The bruising around her eye is vicious—purple-black shadows that stretch down toward her cheekbone like she went twelve rounds with someone who didn’t bother pulling punches. A split lip gleams faintly under the incoming evening that filters through half-drawn curtains.
I don’t realize I’m moving until fire explodes along my ribs from sitting up too fast. A hiss escapes between gritted teeth, but I don’t care because all I can see is red now—anger boiling up from somewhere deep enough that it threatens to swallow me whole.
“Who?” The word rips out low and guttural before I can stop it. My voice sounds foreign—rough edges ground down by exhaustion but no less lethal for it.
Liv stirs at my voice, her eyes fluttering open. For a moment, confusion clouds her features before recognition hits. She jerks toward me, a gasp of pain escaping as her body protests the sudden movement.
“You shouldn’t be sitting up.” Her voice is hoarse, thick with exhaustion. The wince that crosses her face as she straightens only feeds the rage coursing through my veins.
“Who did this to you?” I demand again, my fingers itching to reach for her, to catalog every mark and bruise marring her skin. The effort of staying upright sends daggers through my ribcage, but I refuse to lie back down.
“Remy, please—” She starts to rise, but I catch her wrist, careful despite my anger.
“Tell me.” The words come out as a growl. “Was it Ano? Did that bastard—”
“Stop.” Liv leans forward, her free hand coming up to cup my jaw. The gentle touch shouldn’t affect me this much, shouldn’t make my breath catch in my throat. “You’re going to hurt yourself worse.”
“I don’t care about—”
Her lips brush mine, soft and careful, stealing the words before I can voice them.
It’s barely more than a whisper of contact, but it hits me like a physical blow.
The fury doesn’t disappear—it still burns hot and deadly beneath my skin—but it recedes enough for me to think past the red haze of violence.
When she pulls back, her thumb traces along my jawline. “You’re alive,” she whispers, and there’s something raw in her voice that makes my chest ache for reasons that have nothing to do with my injuries. “That’s what matters right now.”
“Eve.” My hand slides from her wrist to tangle with her fingers. “What he did to you—”
“What he did to both of us.” Her other hand stays against my face, anchoring me as much as restraining me. “And he’ll pay for all of it. But right now, you need to lie back down before you hurt yourself even more.”
The pain claws at me like barbed wire embedded beneath my skin.
Every breath is a shallow negotiation; my ribs scream for mercy I can’t afford to grant them.
I fight through it because she’s here—because I need answers before I go mad watching her sit there, bruised and guarded like some soldier returned from war.
“Eve,” I rasp, my voice roughened by hours of screaming at Marcus’s fists. “What happened?”
She lifts her head slowly, blinking as if surfacing from deep waters. For a moment, I see raw exhaustion in her eyes—a fleeting crack in the armor she’s been wearing since the day we met again—but it seals over before I can reach it.
“You need rest,” she says softly, avoiding the question. Her fingers ghost over my hand where it rests against the mattress, tracing the knuckles absently. It’s such a small thing—a barely there touch—but it roots me in place more effectively than any sedative they could have pumped into my veins.
“Don’t deflect.” My voice sharpens despite the way my ribs threaten mutiny. “Tell me.”
Her lips press into a thin line before she sits back in the chair, straightening with deliberate care that only makes me angrier.
I listen in silence as she lays it all out—how she took everything we’d fought for and handed it over to the FBI in one fell swoop.
How she made sure every piece of evidence was meticulously cataloged and delivered into hands that couldn’t be bought or intimidated by Montoni’s money or power.
“The FBI has everything they need,” she says evenly, though there’s steel beneath the calm veneer. “My father’s empire is crumbling.”
I don’t miss the way her tone shifts—coolly calculating, devoid of sentimentality—and it stops me cold because I know that tone intimately.
It’s mine when I’m dissecting a problem or weighing collateral damage against objectives that can’t afford failure.
Hearing it come from her leaves something sour in my throat.
“You planned this.” It isn’t a question; it doesn’t need to be.
Her eyes meet mine then—steady but unreadable—and I realize with uncomfortable clarity just how much ground I’ve lost in this game we’re playing against each other and ourselves.
“Of course I did,” she says simply, folding her arms across her chest like she knows exactly what I’m thinking but refuses to dignify it with reassurance or regret.
I glance down at where her hand lingers near mine—still close enough that I can feel its warmth even though she isn’t touching me anymore—and wonder if this is what she felt all those years ago when she uncovered who I really was beneath all my charm and lies: fascination warring with something darker that tastes too much like fear.
“You’re ruthless,” I say finally because it feels safer than admitting how much admiration bleeds into those words despite myself.
Her lips twitch—not quite a smile, but close enough to mock me anyway—and when she leans forward again, resting her elbows on her knees so we’re almost eye level despite my prone position, there’s something defiant gleaming in those bruised eyes that makes my chest ache for reasons unrelated to broken bones or bruised pride.
“I corrupted you.” The words slip out before I can stop them, rough and raw against my throat. The admission costs me more than the physical pain radiating through my body.
Eve’s soft laugh catches me off guard. She leans forward, pressing her lips to my forehead in a gesture so gentle it makes my chest constrict. When she pulls back, her eyes hold mine with an intensity that pins me in place.
“You didn’t corrupt anything, Remy.” Her fingers trace along my jaw, careful of the bruising. “To deal with someone like my father, I had to embrace what was already there. My own darkness.” Her lips curve into a bitter smile. “I’m half Montoni, after all. That should terrify you.”
A snarl tears from my throat, sending fresh agony through my ribs. “Don’t.” The word comes out harsh and commanding. “Don’t you dare compare yourself to him.”
“Why not?” Her thumb brushes over my split lip, the touch feather-light but deliberate.
“Because it makes you uncomfortable? Because you’d rather believe you somehow tainted me?
” She shakes her head. “I chose this path long before you re-entered my life. I chose to dive into the darkness because it was the only way to bring my father down.”
“Eve—”
“No,” she cuts me off, steel entering her voice. “You don’t get to shoulder this burden. What I did to my father, the choices I made—they’re mine. All of them.” Her hand slides to cup my cheek, forcing me to maintain eye contact. “I’m not some innocent you led astray, Remy. I never was.”
The truth in her words settles like lead in my stomach. I see it now in the unwavering determination behind her eyes, in the calculated precision with which she orchestrated Ano’s downfall.
The weight of her words hangs between us, but there’s more. I can see it in the way she shifts, gathering her thoughts.
“Even with this darkness inside me,” she says carefully, “my sense of justice will always drive my work. It’s not something I can turn off.” Her eyes lock onto mine. “That should worry you.”
The implication hits harder than any of Marcus’s punches. My jaw tightens as I study her face, searching for any hint of threat or challenge. “Are you asking if I think you’ll come after me next?”
Liv tilts her head, neither confirming nor denying.
“I won’t be like your father,” I say, the words coming out rougher than intended. “But I won’t pretend I don’t operate in gray areas. My work will always border on criminal—you know that.”
She doesn’t flinch from the admission. If anything, her expression softens slightly, though the steel remains in her eyes. I realize I’m holding my breath, waiting for her response, for some indication of where we stand now that the dust has settled and her father’s reign has ended.