Page 27 of Declan

Kian’s cabinet has track trophies, too, and some boxing ones. Connor’s is the most surprising, filled with track awards, including a national silver medal.

I must admit, that’s impressive. There are also some certificates on the wall—mainly from Declan, shooting, and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu; damn. I make a mental note to tease him into fighting me in the ring they have at their gym. Declan is massive; it should be fun.

Closing the door, I’m about to head to the stairs when I see a small light. There’s no door that I can see from here, and as I come closer, I notice a small staircase with maybe half a dozen steps.

Odd.

From the outside, the mansion only looks like it has three floors. So why are there more stairs leading up? The lights are off, so I use my phone’s flashlight, following the narrow steps until I reach a small wooden door. It’s unlike the others—smaller, unassuming as if it’s meant to be hidden.

I try the handle. Locked.

But it’s a simple lock. I pull a bobby pin from my hair, my fingers trembling slightly. Let’s see if I’ve still got it. I used to be good at this in my teen years.

Giovanni never really cared about me, but when Silvana and Bruna got their bodyguards, he got me one, too, when I turned six—Carlos. He worked for our family since I can remember.

He’s six feet tall, broad-shouldered, with grey hair and dark eyes that always seemed ready for violence—except when I was around. Whenever I was near, his face would soften, a rare smile just for me.

While my sisters were learning etiquette, Carlos was teaching me what he called fundamental skills: how to fight, pick locks, drive like a maniac, shoot, and even sword fight. That last one? I never quite saw the point, but it was fun.

He was more of a father to me than my flesh and blood ever was. And this skill? It’s come in handy more than once.

A soft click, and the handle turns.Ah! Still got it!I say to myself as I slip inside, and the moment I do, my heart stutters in my chest.

The room is small and claustrophobic. There’s only one window—no curtains, just cold glass reflecting the faint light from my phone. Beneath it, an oak desk, polished and dark, sits in the middle of the room. On it, a small blue velvet box and scattered photos.

I approach slowly, my breath catching as I open the box. Inside is an engagement ring—white gold with a stunning emerald at its centre, catching light. Behind it is a picture of Declan smiling, his arm wrapped around a beautiful blonde woman with striking green eyes. My stomach churns. This is her. I remember her from that party years ago; she was a goddess. She reminds me of Rapunzel.

The room smells like something a woman would wear—fruity and sweet, a scent that lingers in the air like a ghost. Her perfume bottle sits on the desk, alongside more pictures and a pink-and-white silk scarf.

He kept her stuff, at least the things he may be more attached to. Everything is meticulously placed and spotless—not a speck of dust in sight. Candles, half-burnt, surround the room, their

scent mixing with the stale air. He must come here a lot.

I shouldn’t be here. This is too private. It looks like his own personal sanctuary, dedicated to the woman he loved.

I turn to leave, my heart racing, when something catches my eye—a board on the wall. I shift the light from my phone toward it.

A map of the park, schedules, lists of names, a picture of her, and the two men who died with her. Surveillance photos from the park are pinned up, some marked with red crosses. The faces are familiar; they’re all dead.

The Russians. The words are written in bold, red letters, with Aleksandr and Anton’s images right beneath them.

Declan must suspect they are behind the attack. And it had to be them. We’d been at peace for years, but I always had a feeling it was their doing. Aleksandr and Anton—two are insane, acting like animals. Smart as fuck, but animals.

I met Anton a few times when we were teens, back when we went to the same school. He’s polite, even friendly, but there’s always something off. And Alek… I shake my head as I feel my throat burning. The way Alek looked at you like he saw right through you—his eyes cold and soulless.

Looking down at the board, I see a picture of my father and other family members, including me and my sisters. Did he suspect us, too? That’s crazy. Why would any of us kill his fiancée?

I guess when you’re as hurt as he is, everyone becomes a suspect. Sadly, they never caught who did it.

There’s a small shelf under the board with a folder. It’s the police case folder; my breath catches in my throat as I step closer, my pulse pounding in my ears. There’s a date scrawled in bold black letters: October 31st. Three years ago.

The day she died. My birthday.

There are pictures of it; my hand trembling as I pick one—her body on the muddy floor, her hair painted in blood, her clothes wet and dirty, the blood—oh my god, so much blood. I suck in a breath, trying to hold my sob, which is rising in my throat.

Suddenly, the room closes in on me. My chest tightens, each breath coming in shorter, panicked bursts. My heart pounds so violently.No. It can’t be, I murmur to myself, my voice weak and shaky.

My hands tremble as I reach up, clutching my chest, trying to steady the frantic beat. I can’t breathe. The walls spin around me, narrowing, closing in, suffocating. It’s all too much.

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