Chapter 95 Marco
Marco
My mother doesn’t run.
That’s how I know something is wrong.
She’s always been a strategist, not a sprinter. She doesn’t flee burning buildings—she arranges for someone else to be inside them.
Everything she owns is burning now.
Accounts seized. Shell companies collapsing. Proxies trading immunity for names. Every layer of distance she ever built between herself and consequence is being peeled away in public.
“She’s not at any known location,” an analyst says.
“Of course she isn’t,” I reply. I was still surprised they allowed her bail.
My mother never used the same exit twice.
But she did have habits.
“Show me anything she ever owned that didn’t make money.”
They look at me like I’ve asked for a unicorn.
“That’s… not really her style.”
“I know,” I say. “That’s why she’ll be there.”
Three minutes later, a junior analyst clears her throat.
“There’s a property,” she says. “Held in a trust. Coastal. Bought thirty years ago. No income. No utilities registered in her name. No upgrades.”
My jaw tightens.
Of course.
The one place she never turned into a weapon.
“Get me eyes.”
A beat.
“Local PD just reported a power surge in the area,” another voice says. “Then a blackout. Fire alarm pinged and died.”
Cold slides down my spine.
“Get me a helicopter.”
We’re airborne in twelve minutes.
The house sits on a bluff over the ocean. White. Quiet. Almost gentle. The kind of place people buy to forget who they used to be.
Smoke is already rising from the back.
“Fire department’s en route,” the pilot says.
“They won’t be in time,” I answer.
We land hard.
I’m moving before the skids stop.
The front door is unlocked.
That’s when I know.
Inside smells like accelerant, hot wires, and salt air. The house hums faintly, like something is still drawing power somewhere it shouldn’t.
On the entry table sits a single envelope.
My name.
I open it.
Marco,
I always knew you’d be the one to come. Not because you’re loyal — but because you’re thorough.
You were never meant for my world. That was my one real mistake.
My throat tightens.
If you’re reading this, it means I’ve already solved the last problem.
I move.
The hallway is smoke and heat. The walls are warm to the touch. Somewhere deeper in the house, something pops and cracks.
I find her in the sitting room.
She’s seated calmly in a chair facing the ocean, hands folded in her lap.
She’s already gone.
A small pill bottle rests on the table beside her.
Behind her, the curtains are burning.
Sprinklers do not come on.
Because she disabled them.
Of course she did.
I stand there too long.
Not as an agent.
Not as a prosecutor.
Just as a son who finally understands that there was never going to be another ending.
On the table is a flash drive.
Labeled:
Insurance.
I take it.
Then I leave the house before it finishes what she started.