Chapter 11 Octavian
OCTAVIAN
My boots make no sound on the carpet runner as I move through the east wing, checking windows, exits, blind spots. The estate's too big, too many corners where someone could hide.
I don't like it. The guards outside are competent enough, but, I think, competent isn't the same as trustworthy.
That thought sends me back.
I'm in a black Mercedes zooming down a dirt road 45 minutes outside of Bucharest.
I'm trying to act tough, but inside I'm nervous. It takes my uncle Nicolae Ionescu six days to discover who is responsible for the hit that took my brother's life. And now, along with two of his sons, my cousins, Lucian and Matei, we're on the way to them.
Nicolae has the area secured before he sends us; he can't risk anything happening to his future heirs, so I know I'm not in danger.
When we arrive, it's at a small farm; goats and cows make noises in the darkness.
We walk inside and two men are tied up on the floor, there is blood everywhere.
"That's them, Octavian," Lucian says, kicking one of them. "These motherfuckers killed your brother."
Matei hands me a gun. I knew hew would, so I'm not surprised. What surprises me more is that when I grip it, I see flashes of my brother's face before the blast. He is leaning against a wall, drinking a beer laughing at some dumb joke I made.
And then…
I snap at the thought and jump on the guy closest to me. I start hitting him with the butt of my gun over and over.
At first everyone laughs and cheers me on, but then as I continue, they slowly get quiet. I black out and when I come to, I am standing over the tied-up man I was hitting and his face is unrecognizable.
I turn to the other man tied up; he just looks at me, eyes wide, crying. He has peed himself sometime during my rage.
I aim the gun at him and fire over and over until the clip is empty, each bullet penetrating his skull.
I toss the gun to the side, wipe the blood splatter from my face, and walk back out to the car.
No one speaks to me the entire way back. I just think that part of me wants to cause the same destruction to their bodies as they did my brother's.
When we arrive back in Bucharest, my uncle wants to speak with me. He tells me the man whose head I bashed in was one of his men who'd worked for him for eight years and turned for cash.
He places his hand on my shoulder and tells me, "He was competent, so I kept him around, but competence isn't the same as trustworthiness. Remember that."
I go home, shower, and cry without letting my mom see. It is the last time I ever cry.
Competent isn't the same as trustworthy.
Something catches my attention and breaks me from my memories, and suddenly I'm back at the Killaney estate.
I shake my head. I hate thinking about the past, especially when the present moment is all that matters.
Now I need to focus on the threat of a mole inside the Killaney ranks. Yeah, I may have overheard some things from their little family meeting.
It makes sense, then, that Callum wants me to check on some shipments at the docks tonight after Keira is asleep. A last-minute addition to my duties to make sure nothing's out of place and none of the employees are acting suspicious. The usual "report back if you see anything off" routine.
I pause at the end of the hall, listening.
Nothing.
The lights are dimmed in her room. I pull my phone from my pocket and glance at the time.
11:47 PM.
She's probably sleeping now.
I turn to head back to my room to get ready, and I notice light spilling out from beneath the library door.
I move closer, silent, and push the door open just enough to see inside.
Keira stands in front of the far wall, her back to me, staring at a collection of framed photographs. Her red hair is curly and falls loose over her shoulders, looking radiant from the warm glow of the desk lamp.
She's changed out of the clothes she wore earlier at dinner and into a fitted black shirt and sweatpants that cling to her hips.
I open the door more to get a better look at her. She doesn't hear me.
Her fingers rest lightly against the edge of one frame, tracing the glass like she's trying to reach through it.
I should leave her be and wait in the hall, but I don't. Instead, I step inside and let the door shut behind me.
She tenses immediately, her head snapping toward me.
"Holy smokes," she hisses, hand flying to her chest. "You scared me," she says and brushes her hair over her shoulder, her hand grazing the top part of her breast. Another thing I shouldn't notice. "You always lurk like this?"
"You're awake," I say, raising my eyes. "I'm here."
Her eyes narrow, but she doesn't argue. "You're like a damn ghost, you know. Make more noise next time," she says, turning back to the photographs.
I stay where I am, hands loose at my sides, watching.
After a moment, she gestures vaguely at the wall. "Just reminiscing. Don't let me stop you from whatever shadowy patrol you were doing."
I don't respond.
She glances over at me, the light dancing in her green eyes. "Seriously. You can go. I'm not going anywhere tonight."
"I'll leave when you do."
She rolls her eyes and turns back to the photos.
I move closer, just enough to see what she's looking at.
The frame she touched holds a photograph. A man stands in the center, tall and broad-shouldered, his arm draped around a woman with dark hair. Two young boys flank them, grinning at the camera. A young girl sits on the man's shoulders, her red hair wild and her smile brighter than the sun.
Keira and her father.
She doesn't look at me as she speaks.
"He was different then," Keira says quietly, as if reading my thoughts.
She taps the glass lightly. "That was before the weight of running this family turned him into what he is now."
I look at her, wanting her to continue but not breaking my silence.
"Everyone always says Callum has his eyes. But they were different, back then."
She looks at me, waiting for me to say something. She's never done that before, waited. Given me space to fill. It feels like a test.
"Is he okay?" I say.
She shrugs. "He stepped down. Left it to Callum. Everyone shelters me from everything, so who knows. I can't seem to speak to him because he's in treatments, but..." She stops and shakes her head. "Anyhow."
She turns to face me fully. "What about your dad? What was he like that?"
The shift catches me off guard.
"You want to know about my father?" I ask. "Why?"
"Because you never talk about yourself. And I'm tired of being the only one exposed."
I guess she's right.
"Exposed," I repeat. "That's what you think this is?"
"Isn't it?" She scoffs. "You know everything about me. My family, my fears, what shampoo I use. I know nothing about you."
I smile. I can't help it. She noticed I noticed.
"You want reciprocity," I say. "Like this is a relationship."
"Isn't it?" she asks.
"No." I take a step forward. "It's a dependency. And you're angry because you're starting to rely on me."
Her eyes flash, but she doesn't deny it.
"You're deflecting again," she says.
"I'm clarifying." I pause. "My father died when I was very young. He was shot in the street. I watched his blood ooze out onto the cobblestones."
I give her what she wants.
Her expression softens immediately. "Octavian, I—"
"Don't." I wave my hand. "You asked because you wanted leverage. To even the scales between us. So let's not pretend it's sympathy."
She swallows and I don't break eye contact with her.
"You don't know why I asked."
"I know exactly why you asked," I say, shaking my head. "You wanted to find the crack. The weak point. See if you could make me feel as vulnerable as I make you feel."
"And did I?"
"No. But I liked watching you try."
She laughs. "You're fucked up."
"So I’ve been told," I hold her gaze.
Silence. She should walk away, but we both know she won't.
"Maybe I'm trying to figure you out," she says.
She takes a step closer to me.
"What else don't I know about you?”
My pulse kicks up. She's not retreating. She's pushing in.
I laugh. "You want all my secrets."
"No, but maybe I just want to know who the fuck I'm trusting with my life."
"You don't trust me." I let my gaze drop to her mouth, then back up.
Her eyes flash, and for a second I think she's going to keep pushing, but then she steps back, shaking her head.
"Fine," she says. "Keep your secrets. I don't care."
But she does, and if I'm honest, I kind of want her to.
She turns back to the photographs, her shoulders straighten, her mask sliding back into place. "Anyway, I'm going to bed, soldier," she says and salutes me.
She moves past me, heading for the door.
I turn to follow, but she stops in the doorway, glancing back at me.
"Do you ever regret it?" she asks.
"Regret what?"
"All of it. The things you've done in your line of work let's call it.”
I hold her gaze.
"No."
She nods slowly, as if she expected that answer. "Good night, Octavian."
Then she's gone.
I watch as she walks down the hall to her room and shuts the door. I stand alone in the hallway for a moment and swear I can still smell her on me even though she didn't touch me.
After a few minutes, I turn and walk down the hall.
Time to do the job Callum asked.
I slip into the car and start it. Keira's voice lingers, Do you ever regret it?
No. I don't.
But maybe I should.