Page 98 of Ruthless

"Rewriting or erasing?" Vincent pressed.

I caught the subtle tightening around Vincent's eyes. This wasn't just professional disagreement. This was personal. This was the man who had murdered his patient sitting across from him, calmly discussing the erasure of human identity like it was a fascinating academic exercise. Vincent's fingers trembled slightly against his wine glass, the only outward sign of the rage I sensed building beneath his therapeutic composure.

"Is there a meaningful difference?" Prometheus countered. "If a painful memory can be transformed into something benign, isn't that preferable to carrying the weight of trauma forever?"

"Not if it means erasing the truth," Vincent said firmly. "Not if it means stealing someone's identity."

The temperature in the room dropped. Prometheus's eyes went flat and cold, the mask of civility slipping.

"A charming perspective," he said after a pause. "Though perhaps naïve. Some people aren't equipped to handle their own memories. Some need... protection from their past."

"Protection or control?" I asked, the last of my restraint fraying. "There's a difference."

"Is there?" His gaze locked with mine. "When I found you, Luka, you were a child with a homemade knife in a bombed-out building. Covered in blood that wasn't yours. Already with kills to your name. I gave you structure. Purpose. Was it wrong of me to take that rage and shape it into something useful?"

Ana gasped softly, looking at me with new eyes. "You... you killed people?"

The horror in her voice, in her expression, felt like a knife between my ribs. My sister—who had once known every secret part of me, who had loved me unconditionally—now stared at me like I was a monster. Which I was. Which Prometheus had made me.

"Lincoln, that's hardly appropriate dinner conversation," she chided, recovering her composure. "I'm so sorry, Luka. My husband sometimes forgets his filter when discussing his security work."

Security work. The euphemism almost made me laugh. As if what The Pantheon did could be reduced to something so mundane, so legitimate.

"It's fine," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "Your husband and I have a... complicated history."

"You worked together?" she asked, puzzled.

"In a manner of speaking." I held Prometheus's gaze across the table. "He taught me everything I know about betrayal."

Vincent's hand found mine under the table, squeezing hard. A warning. A reminder that we hadn't come here for confrontation. Not yet. We were outmanned, outgunned. This wasn't the time or place.

But looking at Ana I wasn't sure I cared about the right time or place anymore.

"Perhaps we should change the subject," Prometheus suggested smoothly. "Ana, why don't you tell Dr. Matthews about your upcoming charity gala? I believe he has connections at the university who might be interested in supporting your work."

Ana brightened immediately. "Of course! We're hosting a fundraiser next month for our new initiative focusing specifically on separated siblings. We've developed a DNA database to help match family members across borders, even decades after separation."

DNA database. The words hit like a bullet. If Ana had her DNA tested, if it were run against mine... But no. Prometheuswould have thought of that. Would have ensured her DNA was never entered into any system that might link her to her past.

Still, the idea took root, growing tendrils of possibility through my mind.

"That sounds fascinating," Vincent said, and I could almost see the same thoughts racing behind his eyes. "I'd love to hear more about the technical aspects of the database. How do you handle the matching algorithms?"

As Ana launched into an explanation of their system, I excused myself. "Bathroom," I murmured, needing space, air, anything to escape the suffocating reality of sitting across from my sister while she discussed reuniting families that weren't her own.

"Down the hall, first door on the right," Prometheus directed, his smile knowing.

The bathroom was sleek and modern, all black marble and recessed lighting. I braced myself against the sink, staring at my reflection. The man looking back was a stranger with pale, hollow eyes.

Ana was alive. Ana was his wife. Ana helped reunite families while her own brother searched mass graves for her face.

The door opened without warning. Prometheus. Of course.

"Twenty-six years," he said conversationally, stepping inside like finding me braced against a sink was exactly what he'd expected. "Quite the reunion, isn't it?"

I looked up at him through the mirror, no pride left to salvage. Just rage burning clean and bright as a star.

"How?" The word barely made it past my clenched teeth.

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