Chapter 26
ROMEO
The penthouse feels wrong without her.
I’m standing in the living room where she sat just hours ago, where I held her before Marco drove her away, and the silence is suffocating. Her coffee mug is still on the counter. Her book—some dense academic text—is on the side table, bookmark halfway through.
There’s evidence of her everywhere. Proof that she was here, that she was real, that this wasn't just some fever dream. But she's gone now. Safe. Protected.
Away from me.
I pull out my phone and open the file Luca sent me this morning—the updated dossier on Thaddeus.
Rebecca's testimony is in here now, along with the evidence Savannah gathered.
Photos of bruises. Medical records. The text messages that escalate from controlling to threatening to explicitly violent.
And underneath it all, the thing that matters most: an autopsy report for the girl he pushed off a balcony.
I've read it three times already, but I read it again now, looking for the details that don't quite add up.
The angle of impact that suggests she didn't just fall.
The defensive wounds on her hands, which the original investigation dismissed as irrelevant.
The toxicology report showing there was no alcohol in her blood.
Someone pushed her. Someone who knew exactly how to make it look like an accident. Someone who's done this before.
My phone rings, and I answer without looking away from the report. It’s Luca calling.
"Tell me you have something.”
"I have three more." His voice is tight. "Three more girls who dated Whitmore in college. One of them is willing to talk. The other two are too scared, but they confirmed the pattern when I pressed them."
"Names?"
"Sending them now. But Romeo—" He pauses, and I can hear the concern in his voice. "You need to be careful with this. If Whitmore finds out we're digging into his past, if his family realizes what we're building—"
"Let them realize." My voice comes out flat and emotionless. It's the voice I used before Savannah. Before I tried to learn to be softer.
"That's not—Romeo, that's not smart. We need to be strategic about this. We need to—"
"I need to destroy him. Permanently. So that he can never touch her again."
There's a long silence on the other end of the line.
"You're worrying me," Luca says finally. "You sound like—"
"Like what?"
"Like you did before. Before her. When you were just—" He stops himself.
"Good. That's exactly what I need to be right now."
"No, it's not." His voice is sharp now. "That version of you had no limits, no conscience, no—"
"No weaknesses," I interrupt. "That version of me got things done. That version of me didn't hesitate."
"That version of you was empty. And Savannah changed that. She made you—"
"She made me soft." The words taste bitter. "She made me vulnerable. And look where that got us. She's in hiding upstate because I wasn't ruthless enough to end this when I had the chance."
"That's not—"
I hang up before he can finish.
Then I spend the next six hours building the case against Whitmore.
The three new names Luca sent me all follow the same pattern.
Whitmore pursued them aggressively, isolated them from friends and family, then became increasingly controlling and violent.
One girl has a restraining order from two years ago that mysteriously disappeared from public records.
Another transferred schools mid-semester and changed her name.
The third just... vanished. No social media presence, no forwarding address, nothing.
Not until Luca managed to track her down.
When I call her, she hangs up immediately. I call back. She hangs up again.
The third time, I leave a message: "My name is Romeo Ciresa. I'm not a cop. I'm not a lawyer. I'm someone who wants to make sure Thaddeus Whitmore never hurts anyone again. If you're willing to talk, I can protect you. If you're not, I understand. But please—just listen to what I have to say."
She calls back twenty minutes later.
"How did you find me?" Her voice is shaking.
"That doesn't matter. What matters is that I found other women with the same story. I have evidence. I can make sure he pays for what he did to you."
"You can't." She sounds like she’s about to cry. "His family is too powerful. They made everything disappear. They threatened my parents. They—"
"I'm more powerful." There’s not a shred of doubt in my voice.
"And I don't care about his family's money or connections or influence. I care about making sure he never touches another woman again. I’m not going to put him in prison. I’m going to do much worse than that.
But I need as much information as I can get. "
There's a long pause. "What do you need from me?" she asks finally.
By midnight, I have testimony from all three women.
Detailed accounts of Whitmore's escalating violence.
Evidence that his family has been covering for him for years.
Proof that Jennifer Caldwell's death wasn't an accident.
It's enough to destroy him—enough to put him in prison for the rest of his life, if I get a judge willing to overlook his last name, or one willing to take money to give me the verdict I would want.
But even looking at the evidence, knowing I could pull that off, I feel in my bones that prison isn't enough.
I want him dead.
I pull up the surveillance footage from outside Whitmore's hotel room—one of my men has been watching him since Savannah left—and I watch him come and go. I watch him meet with his lawyer. Watch him smile and laugh like he hasn't done anything wrong.
Like he hasn't terrorized the woman I love. Like he hasn't put his hands on her.
My phone buzzes with a text from one of my contacts: Whitmore just booked a flight to Charleston. Leaving tomorrow morning.
I’m sure he’s going to see Edgar Beauregard to coordinate their next move. I forward the information to Luca with a single instruction: Have someone meet him at the airport. I want to know everywhere he goes.
Then I turn my attention to Edgar.
Edgar Beauregard's shipping empire is built on a foundation of carefully cultivated relationships and barely legal business practices, some of it aboveboard and some of it not. I've been studying his operation for weeks now, looking for weaknesses, and I've found plenty.
His primary shipping contracts are with companies that can't afford scrutiny.
Businesses that cut corners on safety regulations, deals that involve moving cargo that customs would be very interested in examining more closely.
Edgar has built his fortune on being just legitimate enough to avoid serious investigation, while being just corrupt enough to maximize profits.
It's a delicate balance. And I'm about to destroy it.
I start with his largest client—a manufacturing company in Asia that ships electronics through Edgar's ports.
One phone call to the right person, one carefully worded suggestion about potential customs issues, and suddenly that company is looking for a new shipping partner.
Then I move to his second-largest client.
Then his third. Then his fourth. I make phone calls and send at least a dozen carefully crafted emails to Edgar's business partners, each one raising just enough concern about his operations to make them nervous.
When I finish with that, I take a look at the financial records that show exactly how Edgar has been hiding his profits from the IRS. I forward those records to a contact at the Treasury Department with a simple note: Thought you might find this interesting.
Then I sit back and wait for the dominoes to fall.
—
I work through the day without stopping—more phone calls, more emails.
More carefully orchestrated moves designed to dismantle Edgar Beauregard's empire piece by piece.
By noon, two more of his major clients have pulled their contracts.
By three, the Treasury Department has opened a formal investigation into his tax practices.
By six, his stock price has dropped fifteen percent.
I should feel satisfied, victorious. Like I'm winning. Instead, I feel nothing.
Just the cold, empty efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times before. Someone who knows exactly how to destroy a person's life—someone who's very good at being a monster.
My phone rings, and when I pick up, it’s my father.
"I heard about Beauregard," he says, and there's approval in his voice. "Good work. Exactly what I would have done."
"I'm not finished.”
"I know. But you're doing well. You're remembering what I taught you. How to be ruthless. How to be effective." He pauses. "I’m pleased with you, son.”
That should make me feel better. But all I can think about is how right now, I’d rather have Savannah here with me. What she’d think if she saw all this, what the expression on her face might be.
There's a long silence.
"Romeo—"
I hang up. And then I think about her upstate, safe and protected and far away from this version of me. I think about what she would say if she could see me now, surrounded by evidence of everything I'm doing to destroy the people who hurt her.
Would she be grateful? Relieved? Or would she be horrified?
I pull out my phone and stare at her contact information. My thumb hovers over the call button. It's one in the morning. She's probably asleep. I shouldn't wake her.
But I need to hear her voice. I need to know she's real, that she's okay, that I haven't lost her completely.
I press call. It rings once. Twice. Three times. Then it goes to voicemail.
"Savannah." My voice cracks on her name. "I—I just needed to hear your voice. I needed to know you're okay. I'm—"
I stop, because I don't know what to say. I'm sorry? I'm falling apart? I'm becoming the monster I was before you, and I’m afraid I’ll lose myself in it again?
I hang up without finishing the message. Then I call again. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail.
On the fifth try, I don't leave a message. I just listen to her voice on the recording—bright and warm and so far away—and I feel something crack inside my chest. I'm losing her. I'm losing myself. I need to finish this, and it’s taking far too long.
I must fall asleep at some point, because I wake up to my phone ringing and sunlight streaming through the windows. Savannah's name is on the screen.
I answer so fast I almost drop the phone. "Savannah—"
"Romeo." Her voice is worried. "I saw your calls. Are you okay? What's wrong?"
"I needed to hear your voice," I manage. "I needed to know you're okay."
"I'm fine. I'm safe. Giulia is taking good care of me." There's a pause. "But you don't sound okay. What's happening? What are you doing?"
I look around at the evidence scattered across my apartment, at the plans I've been making.
"I don't know," I whisper. "I don't know anymore.
Without you here, I'm—I'm turning back into what I was before.
Cold. Empty. Ruthless. I'm becoming exactly what my father made me, and I don't know how to stop it. "
I hear her breath catch.
"Luca said I'm spiraling. He's right, Savannah.
I look in the mirror, and I don't recognize myself.
I'm doing things that should bother me, and they don't. I'm destroying people's lives, and I feel nothing.
And the worst part is—I'm good at it. I'm so fucking good at being this person, and that terrifies me. "
"Romeo—"
"You're the only thing that makes me human." My voice breaks completely, and I realize I’m on the verge of crying, a thing so anathema to who I am that it shocks me to my core. "You're the only person that makes me feel anything. And without you here, I'm losing that. I'm losing myself. I can't—"
I stop because I'm crying now—actually crying, something I haven't done since I was a child.
"I need you," I whisper. "I need you so much it's destroying me. And I know that's not fair. I know I'm the one who sent you away. I know I'm supposed to be strong enough to handle this alone. But I'm not. I'm not strong enough. Without you, I'm just—I'm just empty."
The silence on the other end of the line stretches so long I think she's hung up. Then I hear a soft sob, and realize she's crying too.
"I need you too," she whispers. "I'm safe here.
I'm protected. But I feel like I'm disappearing.
Like I'm losing myself just as much as you are.
And I'm so scared, Romeo. I'm scared of what you're becoming.
I'm scared of what I'm becoming. I'm scared that we're both turning into people we don't recognize. "
"Then tell me how to do this." I'm begging now, and I don't care. "Tell me how to handle this without becoming a monster. Tell me how to protect you without losing myself. Because I don't know. I don't know how to be both the man who can keep you safe and the man you fell in love with."
"I don't know either," she whispers. "But Romeo—I need you to try.
I need you to remember who you are. Not who your father made you.
Not the weapon or the killer or the cold, empty thing you're describing. I need you to remember the man who took an archaeology class so he could fall in love with me. The man who brought me soup when I was sick. The man who promised he’d try to be better.
Because that's the man I love. I love you, Romeo. Even though sometimes it feels like it’s killing me, I love you.
Not the violence, but the man underneath all of that.
The man who's capable of being gentle. The man who's trying so hard to be better than what he was raised to be. "
“I love you too,” I whisper, holding the phone close to my face, as if I could hold her right now in the same way.
"I love you so much it terrifies me. I love you so much, I don't know how to function without you.
I love you so much I'm willing to become a monster if that's what it takes to keep you safe. "
“I don’t want that,” she says softly. “I want you, Romeo. I want the boy I fell in love with, not whatever man your father wants you to be. Promise me you won't lose yourself completely before I get back. Promise me that when I come back, you'll still be who I fell in love with."
“I’ll do my best,” I say quietly. It’s the best I can give her, right now.
“Okay,” she whispers. “I love you.”
"I love you too."
She hangs up, and I'm alone again in my apartment surrounded by evidence of everything I've been doing.
If I’m not careful, I’m going to destroy myself, and everything I want, along with the people trying to take it from me.
I can’t let that happen. Whatever part of me she woke up, it has to still be there when this is done.
Or else none of this matters.