Page 16 of Betrayed
The warmth is immediate, hungry, gobbling up the cold air that surrounds it. It crackles and spits like it’s just as eager as I am to fill the silence. I sit in front of it for a moment, my knees tucked to my chest, the coat wrapped tight around me, and let myself breathe.
Then I get to work.
I unpack the burner phone, the cash I exchanged at the airport before I left, and the small, leatherbound notebook.
When Caleb and Cass first got together, he showered her with gifts. I’d wondered where his endless flow of money came from. Cass said, 'Don't look a gift horse in the mouth.'
Later, we learned the truth: he’s the son of the don of a dangerous gang in Glasgow called the Hoax, a criminal organization deeply involved in drug trafficking, and there were whispers of people trafficking as well.
The notebook contains all the information I’ve gathered about the Hoax over the years. Names, phone numbers, safe house addresses.
I lay it all out on the dusty kitchen table.
And then I pull out the voice recorder.
I press the red button and raise it to my mouth.
“Cass,” I say softly. “If you ever hear this…you know I love you. I’m doing this so you don’t have to live in fear of looking over your shoulder. So Ryan never has to grow up scared of his world and the people in it.”
My throat burns.
I hit stop.
Then I record another.
“For Lucian…”
Tears are streaming down my face when I’m done with his message.
I tuck the recorder into the small lockbox I brought with me, then hide it beneath the loose floorboard in the kitchen where Cass and I used to hide our money from dad.
The thought of them hearing my last message makes my stomach flip-flop.
I came out here to end Caleb myself so I wouldn’t need the Morettis, and Lucian wouldn’t have to be involved.
He would be safe.
And I wouldn’t hurt him. Not the way they did.
After reconsidering, I leave the box out on the counter instead.
So they can find it.
In case I don’t come back.
CHAPTER NINE
Lucian
I stalk the penthouse, every muscle tense, fists clenched at my sides. The air still smells like her—vanilla, shampoo, heat. It’s enough to gut me.
I go to the bar, pour last night’s untouched whiskey from the tumbler into the sink, and rinse away the earthy smell with warm tap water. Then I move to the kitchen to wash it, since that’s where we used to do the dishes together, and it makes me feel less like she’s gone.
Sad, I know.
Then I see it on the marble countertop of the bar, right where I ate her out only hours ago. That moment feels like a lifetime ago.
It’s a note. A white card folded in half, with my name written across the front in her neat, swirling letters.
