Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Ryan
"Miss, you sure you want to get out here?" The driver hesitated. "This area's not exactly safe."
"It's fine." I pushed the car door open. Cold wind rushed in.
I pulled out the note again, double-checked it against the GPS destination.
Yeah, this was it—end of that little road up ahead.
I paid the fare, hitched my bag higher on my shoulder, shoved my phone in my pocket, and started down the path.
Shipping containers stacked like mountains on both sides.
I was about to turn back when I decided to text Ronan.
"I'm here. Where are you?"
Hit send. The message hung there, wouldn't go through. One weak bar on my signal. What the hell was Ronan doing out here? But I'd come this far. I pocketed my phone, swallowed my unease, and kept walking.
Near the end, I spotted an abandoned warehouse. Empty all around. Not a soul in sight. A rusted padlock hung on the main entrance—looked like no one had touched it in years. My palms started sweating. Maybe this note wasn't from Ronan at all. Maybe Helen got it wrong. Maybe—
A familiar voice drifted out from inside. Maybe Ronan really was in there.
I moved closer, tried to make out what they were saying. The voices were faint—one man's aggressive interrogation, another's broken sobbing.
Every rational bone in my body screamed to leave.
Walk away. Get the hell out. But my feet—they didn't belong to me anymore.
They carried me toward a dust-caked window on the warehouse side.
The glass was cracked in several places, crusted with salt from the sea wind.
I used my sleeve to wipe a small viewing spot and pressed my face against it.
The warehouse interior was massive. Three industrial spotlights had been set up, beams cutting straight down to a patch of concrete in the center. Several men stood in the light—black suits, black shoes, every one of them with a bulge at the hip. I recognized the guy on the left. Marco.
In the center of the light, someone knelt on the ground. Dustin. They had him on his knees, hands severed, face covered in blood. And standing in front of him—I'd know him with my eyes closed. Ronan.
Nausea hit me so hard it drowned out the fear. Sure, I hated what Dustin had done, but I didn't want to watch him tortured like this. Still, I couldn't blame Ronan either. Everything he was doing, he was doing for me.
"Dustin. I'm asking you one last time. Who sent you after Ryan?"
A gurgling sound came from Dustin's throat. "I don't know, please, I just—"
"Who's paying you?" Ronan cut him off. "Fifteen thousand a month. Since the first time you harassed Ryan. Tell me now, and I might let you live."
"I really don't know! Fuck, I swear I don't! They contacted me through an encrypted email, just told me what to do, just told me to cause trouble—"
"Boss, want us to try something else?" Marco stared coldly at Dustin.
Ronan shook his head. "No need."
He drew a gun from his waist. Black barrel gleaming under the lights. My heart nearly exploded out of my chest.
No. He wouldn't.
"Please!" Dustin struggled to get up. "I really don't know anything! I just needed money, really, I—"
"You touched her." Ronan raised the gun, aimed at Dustin's head. "You put your filthy hands on her."
"No!" Dustin screamed. "Please! For Ryan's sake—"
Ronan pulled the trigger.
My ears rang. Dustin's body pitched forward and hit the ground hard. Blood pooled slowly beneath him.
Ronan holstered the gun, nodded at Marco.
"Cut off his head. Send it to the Gambinos for a wind chime. Dump the rest at sea."
"Yes, sir." Marco grabbed Dustin's corpse and left.
"Where's Ryan today?"
My breath stopped. I froze by the window.
"Probably still in the study waiting for you." Declan's voice. "Marco said Miss Clark came looking for you."
"Okay." Ronan's voice softened. "I'll be back before five."
I don't know how I got away from that window. My legs felt like noodles, but I knew I had to run—run from this hellhole, run from that cold-blooded killer.
I stumbled around and crashed into some oil drums stacked by the road.
"Who's there!"
I didn't care anymore. Kicked off my heels and ran like hell back the way I came.
Didn't stop until the warehouse was just a blur of shadow behind me.
Then my legs finally gave out. I staggered to a tree trunk and collapsed against it, puking my guts out, tears streaming down my face.
When my stomach was empty and I could only dry heave, I slid down and sat on the ground.
My bag had fallen. The zipper popped open. I reached out with shaking hands to stuff things back in. When my fingers touched that white box with the pregnancy test, I jerked like I'd been shocked.
Dustin falling. Over and over in my head. That ruthless executioner—and the man who held me tight at night, who teared up at Rose's bedside—which one was real?
I zipped up my bag with trembling hands and clutched it to my chest. Struggled to my feet. Walked back like a ghost. I don't remember how far I walked, whether some kind driver gave me a ride. I just know that when I finally looked up, I was near the manor's private drive.
Should I go in? Face the man who just killed someone with his own hands? Pretend nothing happened and tell him I'm pregnant with his child?
"Ryan?"
Victoria stood behind me, concern on her face.
"What are you doing here?"
"I came to drop off a little sweater Rose left at my place." Victoria gestured toward the manor. "Andrew asked me to wait for Ronan. God, what happened to you? Were you mugged?" She stepped forward and even steadied my swaying arm.
I opened my mouth, tried to form words. Couldn't even make a sound.
Victoria frowned, leaned closer. "You smell like the ocean..." She looked back in the direction I'd come from. "You went to the docks? Brooklyn?"
I didn't confirm or deny.
"So, you saw something, didn't you?"
She knew. She knew about that place. She knew what Ronan was doing. She knew Ronan's truest, most brutal face.
"Honey, don't be so tense." She spoke like she was soothing a child. "I won't tell Ronan. I'm on your side."
"What do you mean?"
"He never came clean with you, did he?" Victoria's eyes filled with pity. "You really thought the Valerius family ran legitimate businesses? That Ronan was just some ordinary businessman pushing papers on Wall Street?"
She shook her head slowly. "No, poor girl. He's the Don of New York's biggest mafia family. Killing someone is as simple for him as you or me drinking a glass of water."
I felt like I'd stopped breathing. Sure, I'd guessed Ronan's background wasn't clean, but I never imagined this—this bloody, dark, monstrous truth.
"Men like Ronan can never truly love a woman. Or rather, what he loves isn't a person at all. It's his own sick obsession."
She pulled a photo from her purse and held it in front of me.
"Look."
I couldn't believe my eyes. A blonde woman in the photo, standing on a seaside villa terrace, glancing back over her shoulder. Like looking in a mirror. She looked almost exactly like me.
"Natasha. You must have heard the name." Victoria said.
"My sister. The day she died, Ronan sat alone in his study all night.
The next morning, he ordered everyone—no one mentions Natasha in front of Rose.
Ever. He took every photo, every object with her in it from the manor and locked them in that third-floor room. The one that's always locked."
"But wasn't that because Natasha betrayed him?"
"Is that what he told you? Naive. That's what he tells everyone. Because that's the only way he can live with killing his own wife."
I was shaking. I didn't know who to believe.
"And that room you're staying in." Victoria lowered her voice deliberately, eyes meaningful. "Honey, that was Natasha's bedroom. He never let another woman set foot in there. Until you."
"Poor girl. Ronan doesn't love you."
"Those light blue dresses he bought you? Natasha's favorite style. That Long Island vacation house he took you to? Where he honeymooned with my sister."
Victoria tucked the photo back in her bag. "He just found a replacement. He's turning you into Natasha piece by piece, making up for everything he never got to finish with her."
She patted my hand and walked away. All the strength drained out of me.
I pressed one hand to my stomach. A little life was growing there. A mafia Don's child. A murderer's child. A pathetic substitute's child.
If I stayed, what future would this child face? Born into violence, conspiracy, and gunfire. Watching his father solve problems by ending lives. Growing up surrounded by fake masks and lies.
Worse, if someday he found out his mother was just a cheap stand-in for a dead wife...
No. I couldn't let that happen. My child would never go through this.