Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
LEA
I wait alone in the sterile silence of the Thorne Gallery’s main viewing room, my pulse a steady drumbeat beneath my skin.
The space is cavernous and cold—white walls bearing priceless artwork, recessed lighting casting dramatic shadows across polished concrete floors.
In the stillness, I can almost hear my own thoughts echoing.
My fingers trace the outline of the gun holstered at my waist, hidden beneath the borrowed leather jacket.
Its weight is both reassuring and terrifying—a physical reminder of how far I’ve come from the eager journalist who walked into the Chicago Investigative Journal just months ago.
That woman disappeared somewhere between watching Nico break a man’s fingers and pulling a trigger myself.
I position myself beneath a massive abstract canvas—swirls of crimson and black that remind me of blood in water. Appropriate, given what’s about to happen. The painting is worth more than I’d earn in a decade of journalism, but tonight it’s just backdrop for the theater we’re about to stage.
“They’re on their way up,” Blake’s voice comes through the nearly invisible earpiece Nico insisted I wear. “Two minutes.”
I take a deep breath, centering myself. I’ve rehearsed this performance in my head a dozen times during the car ride over.
I know exactly what face to wear: the triumphant but traumatized daughter.
The avenging angel who has just watched her father’s supposed killer die.
The willing protégée ready to fall into Isabel’s arms and plans.
My stomach churns at the thought of seeing my mother. Eunji . Even her name feels foreign in my mind now. The woman who raised me, who taught me to write in Korean, who kissed my scraped knees and helped me with my college applications—that woman was a fiction. A cover story maintained for decades.
Behind that carefully crafted maternal mask lurks a spy who murdered her husband when he threatened to expose her. A woman who manipulated her own daughter’s career to serve as an asset in a global criminal network.
A soft ping announces the arrival of the private elevator.
The doors slide open silently, revealing Isabel first—elegant and lethal in a cream-colored pantsuit that makes her look like she’s stepped off a fashion runway rather than orchestrated multiple murders.
Behind her stands Eunji, my mother, dressed in her familiar academic style: dark slacks and a tailored blazer, her silver-streaked hair pulled back in a neat bun.
My heart seizes at the sight of her. Despite everything I know, some childish part of me wants to run to her, to bury my face in her shoulder and breathe in her familiar scent of jasmine and green tea.
Instead, I force my body to tremble slightly. I let tears well in my eyes—easy given the genuine storm of emotions raging inside me.
“Lea,” my mother says, her voice carrying the same warm concern I’ve heard my entire life. She steps forward, arms outstretched. “My brave, brave girl.”
I allow myself to be folded into her embrace, fighting the instinct to stiffen at her touch. Her arms around me feel exactly as they always have—strong, protective, familiar. It takes everything I have not to recoil.
“It’s over,” I whisper, my voice deliberately unsteady. “He’s gone.”
She pulls back, holding me at arm’s length, her eyes scanning my face with what looks like genuine maternal worry. “Are you hurt? Did he touch you?”
The irony of her concern nearly makes me laugh. After all she’s done, after manipulating my entire life, she’s worried about whether Nico touched me.
“I’m fine,” I say, brushing away tears. “It happened just like they said it would. He never suspected a thing.”
Isabel moves closer, her perfect red lips curved in a satisfied smile. “I knew you had it in you,” she says, trailing her fingers down my arm in a gesture that’s both congratulatory and possessive. “You have your mother’s steel beneath that soft exterior.”
My mother beams at this, pleased by the comparison. The pride in her expression makes bile rise in my throat.
“Come,” Isabel says, leading us toward a seating area near the far wall. “We have much to discuss. I’m sure Dante is handling the cleanup, but we need to move quickly to secure Varela’s territory before his people realize what’s happened.”
I follow them on shaky legs, playing the role of the traumatized accomplice still processing what she’s done. Isabel settles into a leather chair like a queen taking her throne, while my mother sits beside her, hands folded neatly in her lap—the picture of academic composure.
“The city is ours now,” Isabel continues, her voice rich with satisfaction.
“With Varela gone, his networks, his contacts, his protection systems—all of it is up for grabs. Dante will take the enforcement side, I will manage our international connections, and you, Eunji,” she nods toward my mother, “will continue your brilliant work with our Korean partners.”
She turns to me, her dark eyes glittering with ambition and something else—that same predatory interest I’d noticed on the yacht. “And you, my beautiful Lea, will be our public face. The crusading journalist who exposes corruption while we operate freely behind the scenes. The perfect cover.”
My mother nods encouragingly. “You’ve always wanted to make a difference with your work,” she says, as if this perversion of journalism is exactly what she’d raised me to aspire to. “This is your chance to truly change things.”
“Your father would be proud,” Isabel adds, with casual cruelty disguised as kindness.
Something inside me snaps at the mention of my father. I feel the last of my hesitation crystallize into cold resolve.
I let them continue for another minute, nodding along with their grand plans, watching as they map out my future without a single thought to what I might want.
Isabel speaks of “our” empire, of the power “we” will wield, while my mother nods along, occasionally adding a detail about pharmaceutical supply chains or political leverage.
They’ve never looked more alike than at this moment—these two women plotting world domination as casually as others might plan a dinner party. Two predators mistakenly believing they’ve caught their prey.
I wait for Isabel to finish a sentence about Miami expansion routes, then step forward, my hands clasped in front of me to hide their trembling.
“Before we talk about the future,” I say, my voice quiet but clear, “we need to settle the past.”
Isabel pauses, her head tilting slightly in curiosity.
I turn to face my mother directly. “I know who killed my father,” I say, each word precise and cutting. “It wasn’t Nico.” I let the silence hang for a heartbeat. “It was you.”
The transformation of my mother’s face is instant and complete—shock rippling across her features before her expression shutters closed. Gone is the warm, concerned parent. In her place sits a stranger with cold, calculating eyes.
“Lea,” she says, her tone still maternally gentle even as her gaze hardens, “you’re confused. The trauma of what you’ve been through?—”
“Don’t,” I cut her off, my voice sharp as glass. “Don’t you dare try to gaslight me. I’ve seen the reports. The timeline. The orders in your handwriting.”
Isabel rises slowly from her seat, realization dawning in her eyes. Her hand moves subtly toward her waistband, where I’m certain she’s carrying a weapon.
“You need to calm down,” she says, her voice a low purr despite the tension radiating from her body. “You’re not thinking clearly.”
“Actually,” comes a deep voice from the adjoining gallery, “I think she’s thinking more clearly than she ever has.”
Nico steps into view, elegant and dangerous in his tailored suit. Blake flanks him, hand resting on his holstered weapon. The sight of them sends a visible shock through Isabel and my mother, both women instantly reassessing their situation.
Nico’s eyes find mine, and the pride I see there sends a wave of warmth through me, unexpected and powerful.
“You played me,” Isabel hisses, looking back at me with a mixture of fury and reluctant respect. “All of it—the fear, the gratitude, the willingness to join us—it was a performance.”
“I learned from the best,” I reply coldly. “A lifetime with her,” I nod toward my mother, “and months with him.” I glance at Nico. “You might say I’ve had excellent teachers in the art of deception.”
My mother remains seated, her posture perfect, her face now unreadable. She looks like a stranger wearing my mother’s skin—all the warmth, all the familiar expressions gone, replaced by something cold and alien.
“The gallery is surrounded,” Nico says calmly, as if commenting on the weather.
“Every exit is covered by my men. Any attempt to escape,” his gaze lands pointedly on Isabel, “will be met with overwhelming force and will probably result in unfortunate collateral damage among the gallery staff still on duty.”
He steps further into the room, his movements fluid and controlled. “I suggest you both weigh your limited options carefully.”
Isabel’s eyes dart around the space, assessing and calculating. I can almost see her running through scenarios, looking for an angle, an opening, a way out. Finding none, she settles back into her chair with forced nonchalance.
“Well played, Varela,” she says, her voice rich with bitter amusement. “Using the daughter against the mother. I should have seen it coming.”
“No one’s using me,” I interject forcefully, refusing to let her rewrite what’s happening. “I’m making my own choices.”
With the immediate threat contained, I turn my full attention to the woman who raised me; the stranger sitting before me with my mother’s face.
“Tell me why,” I demand, my voice breaking despite my efforts to keep it steady. “He loved you. I saw how much he loved you.”