Page 126 of Ruthless

"I'd give it up," I said, surprising myself with how easily the words came. "If staying with Luka means leaving my practice behind, living in this world instead of mine, then that's what I'll do."

"Even knowing what this world is? What it does to people?"

I thought of my apartment, now forever tainted by the memory of Prometheus's men ransacking it. I thought of Michael, dead because of his connection to me. The safe, ethical life I'd built already lay in ruins.

"My old life is gone anyway," I said quietly. "And maybe... maybe I could do some good here, too. These people—assets like Luka, like Ana—they've been conditioned and controlled their entire lives. Who better to help them than someone trained in deprogramming?"

Lo's eyebrows rose. "Therapist to the assassins? That's a career pivot."

"More like damage control," I replied. "But yes, if that's what it takes to stay with Luka, to build something real with him... I've already made my choice."

The elevator doors opened onto the main level of the Acropolis, the artificial sunlight a jarring contrast to the sterile darkness of Tartarus. As we stepped out, Lo checked his phone.

"I need to call Diego. We'll reconvene tonight to strategize."

I nodded, already mentally outlining what we would need. Medical evidence of Luka's conditioning. Testimony about Prometheus's methods. Anything that would prove this wasn't just an assassination, but an act of liberation.

As Lo disappeared into the crowd, I glanced at my watch. We had hours before our strategy meeting, and there was something else I needed to do.

I made my way toward the administrative section of the Acropolis, a place I'd only heard about but never visited. Unlike the ornate Mediterranean architecture of the main areas, this section featured sleek, modern design—all glass and polished stone that spoke of efficiency and power.

At the reception desk, a woman with perfect posture and unnervingly steady eyes regarded me without expression.

"I need to speak with Rhadamanthys," I said, surprised by the steadiness of my own voice. "About Ana Aleksandar."

"You mean Anastasia Mercer," she corrected automatically.

"No," I replied firmly. "I mean Ana Aleksandar. Her real name. The name she had before Prometheus stole her identity."

Something flickered briefly in the woman's eyes—surprise, perhaps, or respect. She tapped at her screen. "Rhadamanthys is not accepting visitors at this time."

"Tell him Dr. Vincent Matthews is here regarding the welfare of an innocent civilian witness."

She seemed about to refuse again when a familiar voice interrupted.

"Dr. Matthews. What an unexpected pleasure." Rhadamanthys emerged from a side corridor, his Western attire impeccable as always.

"I'd like to see Ana," I said without preamble. "Or at least know that she's being treated well."

He studied me, head tilted slightly. "Concern for the sister while the brother awaits judgment? Fascinating priorities, dottore."

"They're not mutually exclusive concerns," I replied. "Ana is an innocent victim in all this. I want to ensure she's being treated accordingly."

A smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Walk with me."

He led me down a corridor and into a private elevator that required both a keycard and retinal scan. As we descended, he spoke without looking at me.

"Ms. Aleksandar is not a prisoner, Dr. Matthews. She is under protective custody, a distinction of great importance. Her accommodations are considerably more comfortable than your lover's."

"Does she understand what's happening? What Prometheus did to her?"

Rhadamanthys sighed, an unexpectedly human gesture from the enigmatic Judge. "She understands enough. Twenty-six years of false memories do not unravel cleanly, Dr. Matthews. She remembers her brother now, yes. But she also remembers a life with Lincoln Mercer that never truly existed as she experienced it."

The elevator doors opened onto a corridor that looked nothing like the detention area where Luka was held. This place resembled an upscale hotel, with plush carpeting and warm lighting.

"She is confused, angry, grieving," Rhadamanthys continued as we walked. "The man she believed was her husband—regardless of how that belief was manufactured—is dead. The life she thought she had has been revealed as an elaborate lie. Yet fragments of her true past are returning, causing additional distress."

We stopped outside a door with no obvious security measures—no guards, no visible cameras.

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