Chapter 50 THE MASK’S LAST GIFT
“She’s going to be fine,” Sofia murmurs from the passenger seat. “Lana is tough. Anderson genes. Stubborn as hell.”
I nod, knuckles white on the steering wheel as I speed toward Chicago Memorial for my meeting with the masked phantom.
Time to put an end to this cloak and dagger shit.
A text flashes across the console.
Knight Ren
Set up on the rooftop of Structure A. Clear view. No sightings.
Bishop Seb
Called in a favor. Note had no prints. Not that I’d expect any.
“Shit.”
I swerve around a semi and gun the gas.
Five minutes to ten. I would’ve left earlier to scope out the place, but I had to check on Lana first.
Seeing her petrified with a vacant look in her eyes damn near killed me. She should be wrapped up in blankets, a book on her lap, laughing with friends and family.
Not hunted. Never hunted.
“Stop it. You’re overthinking.”
I snap my gaze at Sofia.
Arching her brow, she smirks. “You have micro-tells. You do this thing with your nose—never mind.”
“She was fine before she married me.”
“She’d be dead if she didn’t marry you. Or worse. It’s fate or cosmic irony. You protected her the best you could.”
The exit looms ahead. I speed down the off-ramp. I’m getting my damn answers tonight.
“But I’m glad to see you like this…” Sofia’s voice trails off.
“Like what?”
“Warm. Caring. Human,” she replies, her voice bittersweet. She pulls out her gun. “I thought it’d be too late—revenge took too much from you, from us. But I’m glad I was wrong.”
The hospital glows like an ember of hope in the inky darkness. But my attention is snared by the twin buildings looming like sentries beside it.
The parking structures.
“Grab your second chance,” Sofia says when we swerve inside. “Lana knows what she’s doing, and she chose you. Don’t waste it.”
My chest constricts. I drop her off on level four. Ren holds Structure A, a sniper rifle at the ready. Sofia will find a place in this building to cover me.
“Stay safe, tiger.”
“Right back at you.” Sofia winks and melts into the shadows.
My breaths are thready as I roll up the ramp to the fifth floor. It’s mostly empty at this hour, with only a handful of cars left.
Nowhere to hide. No soul in sight.
Easing my car into a corner space, I wait, my gun loaded and ready at my side.
Fluorescent lights stutter. Fog creeps up the windshield.
Nine fifty-seven p.m. Three more minutes.
Sweat beads on my neck. I pull out my lighter and flick it. Once. Twice. Three times, watching the flames writhe.
Much like the flames on the night my parents and Beatrice died.
My eternal disease—obsession—flares, always focusing on things I should let go of for everyone’s sake.
Fire. Revenge.
Lana.
The air shifts—a loud crackle and a pop. The garage plunges into darkness.
Someone slides into the backseat. I grab my gun.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a distorted voice warns.
Light returns. I glance in the rearview mirror.
A man sprawls across the backseat, gun aimed at me, hood over his head, facial features not visible.
He’s fast and efficient. A skilled adversary.
“What do you want? Why all the theatrics?”
My voice is calm. Never show fear.
“Let’s just say I’m a friend.”
“A friend wouldn’t steal from me.”
He chuckles. “Not a friend then. An ally.”
The air stills as if the world’s stopped spinning. He’s giving nothing away—no tells, no behavioral quirks.
“Well then, ally,” I say, “you stole the kill ledger at the Benefaction. You took my wife’s package. You got me here. So talk. Stop wasting my time. What. Do. You. Want?”
I sense his smile even though I can’t see it.
“A favor for a favor. That’s your brand, isn’t it, Elias? Or should I say, Kian Leste?”
My jaw twitches, but I keep my composure. Mind games.
“I don’t do favors for strangers.”
“We’ve established I’m an ally.”
“Then give me something. A sign of good faith. Then we can talk.”
Leather creaks and he shuffles. An envelope slides into view.
“Everything you need is inside.” He opens the door and steps out. “Way more than ‘good faith.’ I just handed you your entire world. Remember, you owe me now.”
He turns around to leave, back facing me. A silver ring flashes on his finger.
I snatch up my gun and aim it at his back. “What makes you think I won’t shoot? You gave me the world after all. I have no more use for you.”
He laughs. “You wouldn’t. You’re too damn curious.”
A loud honk bellows to my left. I look away.
When I glance back, the phantom is gone. No footsteps. No shadows. Nothing left behind. Only a trace of bergamot lingers in the air.
The passenger door clicks open a few minutes later, and in slides Sofia. “The bastard’s fast. Getaway car ready, plates stripped. Avoids cameras. No visuals. What did he give you?”
“The world, apparently. You do the honors.”
She grins, tears into the envelope, and pulls out a stack of papers.
A gasp rips from her throat as she reads them. Wide-eyed, she hands them to me.
Transfer of Power: Anderson Holdings to Lleshi Shipping Company
Cosigned: Vincenzo Caruso, Ernest Kong, Juan Alvarez, Adam O’Callaghan, Sergei Ivanov
Official seals in red wax. Frayed papers. Notarized decades ago.
Then the photos—the first ones are black and white. My grandfather, in a tux, stands with five equally well-dressed gentlemen, the Statue of Liberty as the backdrop. Then, colored photos—familiar faces from childhood, family, friends.
And finally, one of a tall man with kind eyes and dark hair smiling proudly at the camera.
Our dad.
“What?” I breathe, unable to believe what I’m seeing. The papers scorch my hands. Grief, fury, and betrayal knife my chest as I put together the story I was never told before.
Grandfather’s land deeds, stock purchases, bank statements with obscene zeros all under my family’s name.
My parents never lied. We were rich a long time ago.
Puzzle pieces fit together—the fear in my parents’ eyes, the constant moving, the different spelling of our last name, Leste, from the original Albanian version, Lleshi. Then there was Carlos Alvarez warning me there were no coincidences before he died at the crematory.
Dad always told us Grandpa had lost his fortune before the Vietnam War, but there were no records of him. No photos except one of him holding Dad as a baby.
This is why.
We were the family who took the Andersons’ place in The Sixth.
We were part of them—The Association.
And somehow, we were ousted.
The same dark blood runs inside me as in these men I’ve sworn to destroy.
A laugh tears from my throat—deranged and mocking—fate has one fucked-up sense of humor.
It’s a full circle, my family starting the uncontrollable monster, trying to escape its wrath, and finally me, turning into the very people I hate—remorseless, apathetic murderers—to end it.
A small slip of paper flutters onto my lap.
I lift it to the light, my vision blurring at the edges.
It’s dated twenty years ago and written in the same vivid ink and script I saw in the crematory records.
Punishment: Extirpation of the Lleshi Family, Strike from The Sixth
Offenses: Betrayal of The Association, Embezzlement, and Coup.
Status: Family line eliminated except for Lestes off-branch—distant cousins.
Current Target: Family of five—two adults, one infant, one son, one daughter.
One signature. One I’m very familiar with.
Edon Berisha, incumbent member of The Sixth, executor of this task for his Rite.
A quill stamp rests next to the signature. A symbol I’ve seen before.
Sable. The person who signed the disposal records at the crematory had this stamp next to his signature.
Edon Berisha is fucking Sable.
I fist the copy of the kill ledger, the evidence I’ve sought my entire adult life. The identity of the man who ordered my family’s deaths, and the reason behind it.
My parents must’ve known danger was upon us. Grandpa crossed The Six, and the punishment was death.
Extirpation—the elimination of the entire family line as punishment.
And Edon Berisha took this opportunity as his Rite to join the ranks. He sent Vasil ?ela and Carlos Alvarez to wipe my family from existence.
Wrath roars up my throat.
The motherfucker.
He stepped on my family’s graves to rise to power.
And he’ll pay for it—with his life.
“What are you going to do?” Sofia whispers, her face pale. “They’re ruthless. They’ll go down fighting. It’ll be a massacre. And Lana…”
My breath stalls. Edon’s signature swirls in my vision.
But the images bleed into bittersweet snapshots—hearing Lana sing Christmas songs in the shower, hand-feeding her chocolates, kissing every inch of her rose-scented skin.
Then my parents tucking little Beatrice into bed, teasing Sofia about her braces, Mom ruffling my hair when I came home from school.
I can’t give up my revenge.
Not just for me, but for others like me—torn apart by the Berishas’ misdeeds.
I once told Lana that Kian is dead, and Elias is a monster.
I’ll be the monster they all fear—just not the kind that’ll snuff out her light.
There’s only one option left.
With my heart in a vice, I make a call. The line connects.
“Get your sister. Tomorrow. You owe me.”
The line clicks dead, and a single truth sinks like lead in my gut.
I may lose Lana.
But at least she’ll stay safe, not buried six feet under. If I don’t survive, let her hate me. Better she lose me than be crippled with pain.
And if I live…
I will earn her back.