Page 17 of From the Ashes

I carefully slip from between them, breathing a sigh of relief when neither of them wakes up as my bare feet hit the cold linoleum floor.

As quietly as I can manage, I sneak into the bathroom and do my business before leaning on the small sink to attempt to process everything that has happened over the last few weeks. It’s been a lot, and I have a feeling it’s all going to hit me at once when I’m least expecting it.

I hug Kaos’s shirt tighter. It’s fucking huge on me, dropping around my knees and making me feel tiny, but it’s comfortable and it still smells faintly of his cologne, so I’m going to squirrel it away and hope he doesn’t notice it’s missing. Or at least pretend like Kovu does.

When I emerge from the bathroom, I find Kaos on a mostly deflated air mattress, his huge body pressed against the wall, while Crew is curled up with his face pressed into the couch.

I spot my phone charging in the kitchen, so I quickly move across the tiny apartment in the hopes I can snap a few quick photos to hold over them.

But when I pick up my phone, there are so many notifications I all but forget about photographing the amusing scene I’ve woken up to.

I have a few texts from Luca updating me about things within the business he’s been overseeing while I’ve been off. He’s going to be a great second-in-command given his extensive knowledge of the business as well as his complete lack of interest in being the boss. If push came to shove and something happened to me, I have little doubt that he would step up and continue my family’s legacy, but he’s not going to overthrow me for it, which is more than a lot of the leaders in this city can say.

I shoot back a few responses and promise to call him later, before moving on to the rest of the texts. There aren’t many people that have this number, but apparently they all need me at once.

I click into a thread with a number I don’t recognize, and my brows furrow at the attached video. It’s pretty much drummed into us as teenagers not to click on links or attachments we don’t recognize, but in my line of work, it could be something important, so I don’t have a choice.

Before I can second-guess myself, I click into the video. I drag my bottom lip between my teeth as I focus on the small screen, trying to get a gauge of what’s happening in the scene that’s been sent to me.

Is that the De Marco mansion? I ask myself as I bring my phone closer to my face to get a better look.

It’s only a few more seconds before I realize it is in fact my family’s home. Why would someone be sending me security footage from my own house?

Well, it used to be my house. Now it’s an empty mansion with more ghosts than happy memories. I’ve been thinking about what I want to do with the place the last few days, but every time I think about selling, all I can think about is my mother. All my memories, however few there may be, are in that house, and I can’t think of someone else’s family living there.

My dad moves past the camera, his eyes darting around his office as he searches for something, and the sight of him has my breath catching in my throat.

Dad.

I assumed the footage was new, but when I check the date and time in the corner, my breath stutters in my chest.

This is from the day he died.

The day I fled.

Dread washes over me in a debilitating wave, but I can’t tear my eyes off the screen. I’m about to see my father killed.

I swallow past the lump in my throat and blink away the tears gathering in my eyes. Perhaps I should look away. This isn’t something I should have to watch, but there’s a niggling feeling in my gut that tells me to keep watching, that someone wouldn’t have sent it to me if there wasn’t something important in this footage.

My dad looks around his office again, but it doesn’t seem as if he’s looking for anything in particular. No, it’s more like when a deer is being hunted. They know there’s a predator, but they can’t see it yet. The thought of my stoic father, the man who wasn’t afraid to teach his only daughter how to be a ruthless killer, being afraid of anything, of being someone’s prey, doesn’t sit well with me.

And yet, I keep watching.

The seconds tick by with my father sitting in his chair, a glass of his favorite whiskey in his hand, as he waits for his fate. Why didn’t he run? Why didn’t he come with me?

Because he never would have abandoned the business, even if it was his own demise.

A large figure steps in front of the camera, but his black hood conceals his identity as he prowls further into the room.

This is the man who killed my father.

Is it Knox? It wouldn’t surprise me if Charles sent his right-hand man to do his dirty work.

“Time to pay up, De Marco.” The voice rumbles through my phone speakers.

A familiar voice.

My eyes dart around the room, making sure everyone is still asleep before my attention falls back onto my phone screen.

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