Chapter 324
“And then you can go,” Hilliard said. “Take the girl. Take the money. Just go. I don’t want to see you ever again.”
He turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows. As he went, he discreetly pulled out his phone and sent a single text to a secure number: Tracker active. Phase two begins tomorrow.
Cailin watched him go. It was what she wanted. Freedom.
But why did it feel like she was dying?
Up in the penthouse of the English Hotel, Charla was pacing.
“The records looked real,” she muttered. “But the photo…”
She looked at the picture of the boys again.
“If they are dead,” she whispered, “then who are these kids?”
She picked up a marker and drew a red X over the boys’ faces.
“It doesn’t matter,” she decided. “If I can’t find the boys, I’ll hurt the one thing she has left.”
She circled Elia’s face on another photo.
“See you at the funeral, little princess.”
The morning after Amerigo’s death brought no peace to Manhattan. It only shifted the battlefield.
The brutal events of the previous days — the blood, the agonizing lie about an abortion she had weaponized against herself, the sheer terror of almost losing her twin boys — still clawed at Cailin’s throat. She had spent the dark hours staring at the ceiling of her temporary suite, eyes burning and dry. Grief was a luxury she could not afford. Pity was a poison. What she needed right now wasn’t closure. She needed a weapon.
Morning sunlight pierced the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Obsidian Auction House. Cailin pushed open the heavy glass doors. Her red-bottomed heels clicked against the polished marble floor, a sharp, rhythmic sound that cut through the quiet hum of the lobby.
She wore a tailored charcoal suit that fit her like armor, her face a mask of absolute ice. The grief from the hospital, the terror of losing her sons — all of it was locked away in a dark box inside her chest. Right now, she needed power.
The front desk receptionist looked up. Her eyes widened. The paper coffee cup slipped from her fingers, splashing hot brown liquid across the pristine white counter.
“M-Ms. Morton?” the receptionist stammered. “I thought you were —”
Cailin didn’t stop. She didn’t even glance at the spilled coffee. She walked straight past the reception desk, eyes fixed on the hallway leading to the Senior Director’s office.
The door was slightly ajar.
Inside, Nadine sat in the massive leather swivel chair that used to belong to Cailin, holding a small silver mirror and carefully applying a coat of bright red lipstick. She looked entirely too comfortable.
Cailin pushed the door open. The heavy wood hit the stopper with a loud thud.
Nadine jumped. She lowered the mirror, her initial shock quickly melting into a sneer.
“Well, well,” Nadine drawled, leaning back in the chair. “If it isn’t the Holloway family’s discarded trash. Did you get lost on your way to the unemployment office, Cailin? Security should have escorted you out weeks ago.”
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