Chapter 33
33
Claudius
I watch as the realization dawns on Blanc’s face. It starts in his eyes. That flicker of understanding. Of fear. Then it spreads. His breath stutters. I tilt my head, watching him. Savoring this. Letting him feel it. The inevitability of it.
This is for me. For Gabriel. For every person hurt by the hand of Blanc.
His throat bobs. I see it now. The moment he accepts it. The moment he knows this is the end.
And then Blanc moves. His head jerks sideways, knocking the barrel just enough— BANG! The bullet shreds past his ear. The chair tilts, toppling over with a violent crash.
I lunge. Blanc’s wrists are still bound, but that doesn’t stop him from twisting, kicking. I grunt, as his boot slams into my shin. Desperation fuels him. He knows he’s about to die. He’s fighting like hell to change that.
I slam my foot onto his chest, pinning him to the ground. His mouth twists into a bloody sneer.
“Killing me won’t fix you, Irons. You’ll still be fucked up in the head, unable to separate your two lives.”
I press the gun under his chin. “No, but it sure as hell will make me feel better.”
He lets out a low, shaky laugh. Blood trickles from his split lip, staining his teeth. His breathing is ragged. His eyes burn with something dangerous.
And then, in a hoarse voice, he says, “Then do it.”
My finger tightens on the trigger. I should. I want to.
I want to watch the light fade from his eyes. To hear the last breath rattle out of him. To know without a doubt that the man who tried to erase me, who killed my brother, who sold out his own people, is rotting six feet under.
And yet I don’t pull the trigger.
Blanc’s smirk widens.
“See? You're just like me. You talk a big game, but when it comes down to it?—”
I cut him off by slamming the butt of the gun across his face. His head whips to the side, blood splattering onto the floor. His body jerks, but he laughs through the pain. The sound is wet and weak, but still full of arrogance.
I grind my foot harder into his chest. “I’m nothing like you.”
I look down at him. This pathetic excuse of a man. A man who has built his empire on manipulation, control, and betrayal.
He wants me to kill him. Because if I do, he wins.
He dies on his terms, not mine.
I feel the eyes on me. Cecely’s. Millie’s. They’re waiting for me to make the call. To decide if I become the monster Blanc always believed me to be.
I take a slow breath. And then I step back. Blanc sucks in air like a drowning man. His relief is short-lived. Because I kneel, gripping his jaw so tight his teeth grind together.
“You don’t get to die yet, old man. No. No, that’d be too easy.” I smirk. “I want you alive to watch everything you’ve built burn.”
I stand, straightening as I turn to Cecely. She’s watching me. Her gaze is searching, calculating, like she’s looking for something beneath my words.
I don’t let her find it.
“The Elite Members are on their way,” I say, my voice even. “They’ll arrive two hours before the news breaks. It’ll be enough time for them to salvage their own reputations.”
Her eyes narrow. She’s piecing it together, I can see it. She’s always been too damn smart for her own good.
“What about you?” Her voice is careful. Suspicious.
“Me? I’m going to put Blanc in a cell.”
Blanc lets out a strangled laugh from the floor. I don’t look at him. He’s already dead. He just doesn’t know it yet.
“Then I’m going to wait for the Elite Members to discover what I’ve done.”
And then I’m going to let them kill me. I don’t say this part out loud. Cecely will try to fight me on this. But this is how the story ends. How it was always meant to end.
Her brows pull together, and I know she’s sensing it. The finality. I don’t give her a chance to question it.
“You and Millie should go. Make sure the others are safe.”
Her mouth opens. Closes. She’s not convinced. Not yet. So she tries a different angle.
“Where’s Agnes?”
I snort before I can stop myself. “She's in the basement, waiting for me.”
A flicker of something crosses Cecely’s face. Doubt. Caution.
“You…didn’t hurt her, did you?”
Her tone is hesitant, like she’s not sure she wants the answer.
And for some fucking reason, it stings.
“What do you think, mama?”
I let the silence stretch. Let her sit in it.
Then, because she deserves something, I add, “Agnes is alive.”
She dips her head. “Fine.”
Blanc yells, but I don’t have time for his shit. Grabbing the roll of tape next to the chair, I tear off a piece and slap it over his mouth. Blanc’s muffled protests are nothing more than background noise. I press my fingers against his chin, just enough pressure to remind him who’s in control.
“Are you going to be a good boy and walk, or do I need to make a point before I let you go?”
He glares. The pride of a dying man. I chuckle, low and slow, letting the moment stretch.
Then I raise my hand, shaping my fingers into a gun, and mime pulling the trigger. His expression shifts instantly. The defiance wavers. I see the flicker of fear.
And there it is. The moment he realizes there is no power left for him to hold on to.
He nods once. I grab his arm and yank him up. His body wobbles, stiff from being bound for so long. His breaths come hard and fast through his nose. He’s trying to compose himself, to steady his balance. Too bad I don’t care. I shove him forward.
“Move.”
His footsteps drag, heavy with the weight of what’s coming. Good. Let him feel it. Let him choke on it.
The hallway stretches long and dark, the air thickening with every step. Each step echoes. A death march. Blanc knows it. I know it.
I glance over my shoulder. Cecely is following, her gaze burning into my back. Millie, however, is hurrying in the opposite direction. Good. Everything is going according to plan. She’ll get the others out. Make sure they’re safe before the storm hits. Before this house metaphorically burns to the ground. Before the Brotherhood crumbles into dust.
I turn back.
At the basement door, Agnes is waiting. Her gaze flicks to me, then to Cecely. She hesitates.
“It’s okay, Agnes.” My voice is calm. Steady. “She knows.”
Agnes' gaze sharpens. “Everything?”
I dip my head. A lie. But a necessary one.
Cecely doesn’t know everything. She doesn’t know the last pieces. The things I’ll take to my grave. The things that will die with me.
Agnes’ lips press together. She doesn’t believe me. But she doesn’t have to.
Pushing Blanc’s shoulder, I force him to descend the stairs, into the darkness, the basement swallowing us whole. I shove him forward, hard. His body stumbles, unsteady, before he crashes into the cold, unforgiving walls of the first cell. The sound is satisfying.
The weight of this moment settles deep in my bones. The click of the iron door slamming shut reverberates through the basement. Final. Absolute. Unforgiving. Blanc turns, slow and seething, his eyes burning with a fury I no longer fear.
I grip the bars, leaning in just enough to meet his gaze.
“It’s ironic. Gabriel was kept in here. I was, too, at one time.” I tap a finger against the cold steel. “And here you are. Where you will await your sentencing.”
Blanc lets out a breath, sharp and ragged. He knows. This is the end. The power, the control, the manipulation—all gone. Stripped away, leaving him nothing but a caged animal.
I feel it. The raw, electric pulse of victory surging through me. The moment I’ve been waiting for. The moment I’ve bled for. And, god, it feels good. For so long, he was untouchable. But now? Now, he is mine. And I will make damn sure he feels every second.
Turning, I face Agnes.
“I need you to go help Millie.”
Her brows pull together, hesitation flickering across her face.
“Sir?” Her gaze darts to the cell. To Blanc. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to leave.”
“It’s fine.” I hold her gaze, steady. Unwavering. I lie. “Promise.”
She’s torn. I can see it in the way her shoulders tighten. The way she studies me, like she’s waiting for me to give something away. I get it. I really do. But she won’t find anything. Because I won’t let her.
She debates a moment longer. Then, finally, she nods.
“I’ll let you know when the others arrive.”
I dip my head.
“Thank you.”
She lingers, just for a second. Like she’s about to say something. Then she turns and leaves, shutting the door behind her.
I turn to Cecely, watching the flicker of emotions play across her face.
“Come here. I’d like to show you something.”
She doesn’t move at first. Her body is tight with hesitation, suspicion. But, finally, she follows a few steps behind, like she’s still not sure if she should trust me. Smart girl.
I lead her down the hall, toward the security room. The door swings open, revealing the wall of screens, the endless flickering of surveillance feeds.
She freezes in the doorway, breath catching. I watch her reaction, waiting.
“Too soon?”
The joke falls flat. She doesn’t laugh. Her gaze snaps to me, sharp as a blade.
“Yes.”
I chuckle, unbothered. “Oh. Well, then you’re probably not going to like what I show you next.”
Her eyes narrow. Still, she steps inside. I gesture toward the chair in front of the monitors. An invitation.
She hesitates. Then, slowly, she sinks into it, her posture stiff, guarded.
I lean against the desk, arms crossed, letting her take it all in.
The live feeds. The shadows moving through the house. The people trapped in their own little corners of this twisted game.
Millie and Agnes are speaking to Aimée and her daughters.
Beatrice still sits alone in her room, motionless.
The cameras at the Elite Members’ homes?
Empty.
Because they’re all on their way here.
Racing toward the downfall of the Brotherhood.
Cecely’s eyes scan the screens, taking in each piece of the puzzle.
I tilt my head. “I’m sure you have some questions for me.”
Her gaze flicks toward me. Suspicion. Distrust. But curiosity, too. That’s the thing about curiosity. It’ll get you killed if you’re not careful.
“Perhaps about things you saw?”
Her eyes narrow. “You’ll answer them?”
“I’m an open book.”
She huffs out a bitter laugh. “Well, since you’ve been lying to me this entire time, I find that hard to believe.”
My smirk falters. “I wasn’t lying.”
“Weren’t you?”
I shake my head, slowly, deliberately. “No.”
She throws her hands in the air, exasperated.
“Then how do you explain that night at Purple Panther Hideaway? The woods? The night you climbed into bed while I was sleeping?” Her voice rises, frustration bleeding through. “Claudius, stop lying! I’m not stupid!”
“No, you’re not.” I tilt my head, voice calm. Measured. “You’re just wrong.”
Her breathing stutters.
“Wrong?” She huffs. “Tell me how I’m wrong.”
I exhale, letting the words settle in my mouth before I say them.
“It wasn’t me.”
Her brows furrow.
“What?”
I hold her gaze, steady. “On those nights. It wasn’t me.” A slow, measured breath. “It was Gabriel.”
She jumps to her feet, eyes flashing.
“Jesus, Claudius! Don’t do this! Don’t lie to my face.”
I let out a slow, bitter chuckle. “Dissociative Identity Disorder.”
She freezes. The shift is instant. Like someone just yanked the ground out from under her. Her body locks up. Her breath is shallow.
And then, she asks in barely a whisper, “What?”
I exhale, running my hand over my beard. “I have Dissociative Identity Disorder.”
The words feel heavy, final. Like a weight I’ve been carrying for far too long. Her lips part, but no words come out.
I don’t give her the chance to recover.
“It means…” I swallow hard. “After Gabriel died, I could hear him. Everywhere I went. It was like he was fucking haunting me.”
I shake my head, like I can shake off the memories, the voices, the weight of it all.
“One day, I got something in the mail.”
She blinks, silent, waiting.
“A letter for Gabriel. Forwarded to me after his death. A letter about an auction.”
Her face drains of color. I don’t stop. I can’t. Because now she has to know. She deserves to know.
“I found out what my brother was up to, but also what Blanc was up to. What the Elite Members had done to save their asses.”
Her lips press together, the tension radiating off her. She wants to ask. But she already knows. I meet her gaze, letting the weight of my next words settle between us.
“That was the first day I stopped hearing his voice.”
Silence. A thick, palpable pause. Then I close my eyes. And I’m there again. Back in London. Back in that day. One moment I was raging. The next? Black. A void. Nothing.
And then I woke up. Disoriented. Hours gone. Time stolen. And then it happened again. And again. And again.
I exhale slowly, dragging myself back to the present.
“I didn’t know what was happening at first.” I run a hand through my hair. “And then one day, I found myself here. On Isola Ombrafiore.”
Cecely sucks in a breath.
Her voice is soft but laced with sharp suspicion. “How?”
“I’m still not sure, to be honest.” That part? Is the truth. “But when I got here, Agnes was waiting.”
I let out a low chuckle, shaking my head at the memory.
“Thought she’d seen a ghost.”
Cecely’s brows furrow. The pieces are clicking into place, but she’s still grasping for the full picture.
“She was the one to figure it out.”
“Figure what out?”
I gesture toward the cameras. “She’s the one who suggested this. To record myself. So I knew what he’d done. There are still times when I need the tapes to know what he’s done. Even now.”
She stares at the monitors, the weight of my words crashing down on her. Gabriel never left me after he died. He was never just a memory. He was always here. Inside of me. Living. Breathing. Taking control when I wasn’t looking.
And for the first time, Cecely truly understands.