Chapter 32 - Gabriel
Zach looks smaller than I remembered.
He's on his knees in the wine cellar beneath the east wing—a room that hasn't held wine in decades, not since my father converted it for other purposes.
The stone walls are thick enough to swallow screams. The drain in the center of the floor is original to the house, but the slight slope that feeds into it was added later.
My father taught me many things in this room. Tonight, I'll put those lessons to use one final time.
"Gabriel." Zach's voice is steady, but I can smell the fear beneath his composure. "I was wondering when you'd get around to this."
I circle him slowly, taking my time. James stands by the door, silent and watchful. He brought Zach in an hour ago—collected him from a motel outside the city where he'd been hiding since his little performance with Poppy.
Hiding. As if there's anywhere on this earth he could go that I wouldn't find him.
"You've been busy," I say. "Digging up old graves. Sharing secrets that weren't yours to share."
"The truth isn't a secret, Gabriel. It's just information people choose to bury."
"And you chose to unbury it. For her." I stop in front of him, looking down at the face I've known since childhood. We were never friends—the Brotherhood doesn't breed friendship—but we were peers. Fellow survivors of the same sick system. "Why?"
Zach laughs, a harsh sound that echoes off the stone. "Why? You're seriously asking me why?"
"I'm asking."
"Because you took everything from me." The composure cracks, revealing something raw underneath. "You killed Dwayne, and you thought that made you a hero. You thought you were saving us."
"I was saving myself."
"You were saving yourself." He spits the words. "But nobody saved my son, did they?"
"Your son committed a grave mistake. He killed an innocent woman."
"He killed someone, yes. But you did too. Yet, you got the Brotherhood's protection when he didn't. Daniel was sacrificed. You made the decision to sacrifice him."
"So this was revenge," I say. "Telling Poppy about Dwayne. Showing her those journal pages. You wanted to take something from me the way I took something from you."
"I wanted you to feel it." Zach's mouth twists. "Helpless. Exposed. Watching someone you—" He stops, recalibrates. "Watching someone who matters to you look at you and see a monster."
"She already knew I was a monster."
"But she didn't know you killed her father.
That's different, isn't it? That makes it personal.
" He shakes his head. "I saw her face, Gabriel.
When I showed her Dwayne's journal, when she realized what he was and what you did—she looked at me like I'd set her world on fire.
And I thought: good. Now Gabriel will know how it feels to watch everything burn. "
I crouch down, bringing myself to his eye level. We're not so different, he and I. The same system created us both.
But he made a fatal error. He touched what's mine.
"Did it work?" I ask quietly. "Do you feel better?"
Zach holds my gaze. For a moment, something flickers there—doubt, maybe. Or the first stirrings of regret.
"No," he admits. "It didn't change anything. She went back to you anyway, didn't she? They always go back."
"She hasn't come back. Not yet."
"She will. Women like her, they can't resist the darkness. They tell themselves they can fix us, save us, love the evil out of us. And by the time they realize they can't, it's too late. They're already ours."
"Stand up," I say.
Zach's face goes pale. "Gabriel—"
"Stand up."
He struggles to his feet, hands still bound behind his back. He's trembling now, the bravado finally cracking. He knows what's coming. He's always known, from the moment James put him in the car.
"It won't bring her back," he says quickly. "Killing me won't undo what she learned. She knows who you are now—what you did. That doesn't go away just because I'm dead."
"No. It doesn't."
"Then why? What's the point?"
I step closer, close enough to see my reflection in his terrified eyes.
"The point is that you threatened what's mine.
You tried to take her from me. You used her pain as a weapon against us both.
" I let him see the truth in my face—the cold, absolute certainty.
"I would kill a hundred men for less. I would burn the world for her.
You were dead the moment you showed her that journal.
Everything since then has just been borrowed time. "
"Gabriel, please—"
"Did you know that Dwayne begged? He cried and pleaded and promised he'd change.
He said he was sorry, that he'd never meant to hurt me, that he loved me.
" The memory surfaces, vivid and visceral—sixteen years old, standing over the man who'd stolen my innocence, watching him grovel.
"I didn't care then. I don't care now. Some acts are beyond forgiveness. Some debts can only be paid in blood."
I nod to James, who steps forward with the knife. Simple, efficient, sharp. The same blade I used before, kept all these years as a reminder of what I'm capable of.
Zach starts to cry—ugly, heaving sobs that shake his entire body. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—please, Gabriel, please—"
"Look at me."
He does, tears streaming down his face.
"You were right about one thing," I tell him. "This is personal."
The knife finds its home.
***
Afterward, I leave James to handle the cleanup. He's done this before—knows how to make a body disappear, how to erase all traces of what happened in this room. By morning, there will be nothing left of Zach but memories, and those will fade soon enough.
I climb the stairs to the main house, my hands clean but my mind still bloody. I should feel something—satisfaction, perhaps, or the righteous calm that usually follows a kill. Instead, I feel hollow. Incomplete.
Because Zach was right about that, too. Killing him doesn't undo the damage. Poppy knows the truth now—about Dwayne, about me, about the twisted thread of fate that bound us together before we ever met. She knows, and she left, and I don't know if she's coming back.
I pour myself a whiskey in the study and stand at the window, looking out at the darkness beyond. Somewhere out there, she's with her mother. Learning the full story of where she came from. Deciding whether she can live with what I am.
I should give her space. I should let her come to her own conclusions without pressure, without manipulation, without the overwhelming force of my presence.
But I've never been good at letting go. I won't let her go without a fight.
My phone buzzes. James, reporting that the cleanup is complete.
Then, a moment later, another message. Security alert from the main gate.
Vehicle approaching. License plate matches the subject vehicle.
Poppy.
She's coming back.
I set down the whiskey, something unfamiliar spreading through my chest. Not triumph—it's too fragile for that. Not relief—there's too much uncertainty.
Hope, I realize. This is what hope feels like.
I've almost forgotten.
I straighten my shirt and check my reflection in the window glass. There's no blood visible—I was careful—but I wonder if she'll sense it anyway. She's always been able to see through me in ways no one else can.
Let her see, then. Let her see all of it—the monster and the man, the killer and the protector, the darkness that will never fully lift and the desperate, consuming need I have for her.
If she can look at all of that and still choose to stay, then maybe—just maybe—I'm not beyond saving.
And if she can't...
I hear the car pull up to the front entrance. Hear the engine cut, the door open, footsteps on gravel.
I go to meet her.