Page 77 of Carnival Master

“What happened?”

“She was like me—young, swept into this world by her father’s position. And the deeper she got, the more trapped she felt.” I pull back, meeting his gaze. “The arranged marriage, the rules, the constant surveillance broke her. She left a note, and I found her on the master bath floor. Pill bottles scattered across the marble countertops.”

Ty’s arms tighten around me. “How old were you?”

“Twelve. I watched her spiral for years before that. She’d cry in her room when she thought no one could hear her. Sometimes, she’d look at me with such sadness, like she knew I’d end up like her.” My fingers grip his coat harder.

“Baby girl...” Ty cups my face in his hands. “You’re stronger than that. You fought back.”

“Because of you.” I lean into his touch. “You showed me there was another way. Mom never had that chance.”

His lips capture mine in a tender kiss, cradling my face with his hands. The gentle pressure speaks volumes, so different from his usual domineering touch. When wepart, I rest my forehead against his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat.

“What about your family?” I ask. “You know everything about my family, but you never talk about yours.”

His fingers pause their gentle strokes through my hair. “Not much to tell. Dad was a con man who dragged us from town to town, always one step ahead of the law.”

“And your mother?” I press.

“Left when I was eleven. Dad’s schemes broke her.” His voice carries a bitter edge. “The last thing I remember is her kneeling down, promising to return for me. She never did.”

I squeeze him tighter. “That must have been awful.”

“Dad raised me the only way he knew—teaching me every trick in the book. How to read people, how to gain their trust, how to spot an easy mark.” Ty’s laugh holds no humor. “By twelve, I could run a better con than most adults.”

“What happened to him?”

“Love killed him.” Tyson’s words come out harsh. “After Mom left, Dad fell apart,” he says, his voice rough with old pain. “Started drinking heavily. He could barely function most days, so I had to step up and run the cons myself.”

My heart aches to imagine a young Ty, eleven years old, shouldering such responsibility. “That’s too much for a child to handle.”

“Someone had to keep us afloat.” His fingers absently stroke my hair. “I got pretty good at it, too.People trust kids more, you know? Makes them lower their guard.”

“And your father?”

“The bottle became his only companion. He’d ramble about Mom coming back, how he couldn’t live without her.” His chest rises with a deep breath. “Found him one morning, just a week before my sixteenth birthday. He’d drank himself to death.”

I tighten my grip around his waist. “What did you do?”

“Ran. There was no way I was letting them put me into foster care. Ended up here at the carnival. The old ringmaster, Gary, took me under his wing and taught me everything about running this place—both the legitimate side and...” He trails off, but I understand what he means. “He handed me the reins when he was ready to retire.”

The pain in his voice matches the ache I feel for my mother. We’re both products of parents who couldn’t handle their worlds—his father destroyed by love, my mother crushed by duty. Yet here we stand, choosing to fight instead of surrender.

36

TYSON

Istand in the abandoned warehouse, my crew strategically positioned around me. The setting sun casts long shadows through the broken windows, but our surveillance covers every corner. Phoenix’s voice crackles in my earpiece, confirming that the feds are in position.

I pull Sofia closer, her body trembling. Her warmth is a stark contrast to the cold metal walls surrounding us.

“What if this doesn’t work?” Her fingers grip my shirt. “What if someone gets hurt?”

I cup her face, tilting it to meet my gaze. “Your father has hurt enough people. It’s time someone stood up to him.”

“I know, but?—”

“No buts.” I brush my thumb across her cheek. “Remember what he did to your mother?”

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