The heavy oak doors of our mansion always closed with a sound that felt like a vault sealing shut. For three years, I had interpreted that sound as security. A testament to the opulent, impenetrable life I was building with . Tonight, our third wedding anniversary, it merely signaled that the trap had been sprung.
I slipped out of my camel-hair coat, letting it drape over the entryway bench. The house was asphyxiatingly quiet. There was no jazz playing from the integrated sound system, no scent of the private chef’s braised short ribs, no Ethan waiting with a velvet box and a practiced smile. Just the echoing of my Christian Louboutin stilettos against the imported Italian marble.
“Ethan?” I called out, the word hanging awkwardly in the cavernous foyer.
No answer.
But as I approached the grand staircase, I heard it. It wasn’t music or laughter. It was a wet, rhythmic sound, punctuated by a low, breathy moan that made the blood in my veins run cold. My eyes drifted downward. At the base of the mahogany banister lay a scrap of black lace. A few feet up, a discarded silk tie. Ethan’s tie.
I crept up the stairs, the silence of my movements a skill I hadn’t used since childhood. The master bedroom door was ajar, spilling a slice of golden light into the darkened hallway.
I pushed the door open.
The shock of it was a physical blow, a kinetic strike that knocked the oxygen from my lungs. Ethan was tangled in the Egyptian cotton sheets. Beneath him, her fingers threaded greedily through his hair, was . My maid of honor. The woman who had wiped my tears when my mother died, the woman who had toasted to my eternal happiness exactly three years ago today.
“Ethan,” I whispered.
They froze. Khloe’s eyes widened, a flicker of panic instantly melting into a sick, triumphant smirk. Ethan scrambled backward, grabbing the duvet to cover his waist. He didn’t look ashamed. He looked profoundly inconvenienced.
“Sophia,” he stammered, wiping a sheen of sweat from his forehead. “You’re home early from the gala.”
The rage didn’t build; it detonated. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I crossed the room in three massive strides, my hand raised. The slap connected with Khloe’s cheekbone with the sound of a whip cracking. Her head snapped to the side, a bright bead of blood instantly welling where my diamond ring had torn her skin.
“You psychotic bitch!” Khloe shrieked, clutching her face.
I turned my fury to Ethan, but I underestimated the fragility of the man I had married. His embarrassment morphed instantly into feral, unhinged violence. Before I could speak, his fist collided with my jaw. The room spun. He grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking me backward with such force my scalp screamed in agony.
He dragged me out of the bedroom, my heels kicking uselessly against the hardwood floor.
“You think you can just walk in here and touch her?” Ethan roared, his face a contorted mask of pure malevolence. “You pathetic, boring liability!”
He hurled me toward the top of the staircase. I reached for the banister, my fingers grazing the polished wood, but I missed. I tumbled backward, a chaos of limbs and gravity.
I hit the landing halfway down.
The sound of my own tibia splintering echoed louder than my scream. Blinding, white-hot agony flared from my right leg, a pain so absolute it forced my eyes shut. I lay there, gasping, tasting copper.
Ethan slowly descended the stairs, throwing a casual robe over his shoulders. He looked down at my twisted leg with cold detachment. “Get her out of my sight,” he yelled over his shoulder to a terrified housekeeper hovering in the hallway. “Lock her in the basement. And don’t give her a drop of water. Let her sit in the dark and think about her place in this house.”
Rough hands dragged my broken body across the marble, hauling me down the concrete steps into the windowless cellar. The heavy steel door slammed shut. The deadbolt clicked.
In the suffocating pitch-black, fighting the waves of nausea radiating from my shattered bone, I fumbled through my clutch. My fingers brushed the cool glass of my phone. It was miraculously intact.
I had spent my entire adult life running from my bloodline, striving to be Sophia Hayes, the normal, philanthropic socialite. But Sophia Hayes died on those stairs.
I unlocked the screen. I scrolled to the very bottom of my contacts. A number devoid of a name, a ghost I hadn’t summoned in two decades. I pressed dial.
The line clicked open.
“Dad,” I whispered, my voice trembling with a terrifying, ancient power. “Don’t let a single one of them survive.”
The silence on the other end of the line was absolute, thick with the weight of twenty years of estrangement. Then, a voice smooth as aged whiskey and hard as granite responded.
“Where are you, ?”
. My father. The Don of the most ruthless, untouchable syndicate on the East Coast.
“The Greenwich house,” I gasped, clutching my shattered leg as a fresh wave of agony washed over me. “The basement. My leg is broken. Ethan… he…”
“Breathe, Sophia,” Vincenzo commanded, the deadly calm in his tone sending a shiver of pure anticipation down my spine. “Help is already pulling into your driveway.”
The call disconnected.
I lay in the damp, freezing dark, my breath pluming in the chill air. Time dilated. Every throb of my pulse was a sledgehammer against my broken bone. I could hear the faint, muffled sounds of Khloe and Ethan moving around upstairs, likely pouring a drink to celebrate my subjugation. They genuinely believed they had broken a fragile socialite. They had no idea they had just kicked a sleeping dragon in the teeth.
Less than four minutes later, the silence of the mansion was violently ruptured.
It wasn’t a knock. It was the explosive sound of the heavy oak front door being splintered off its hinges. Muffled shouts. The unmistakable, heavy of a body hitting the marble floor.
Footsteps thundered toward the basement. The deadbolt was violently sheared off, the steel door kicked open so hard it dented the drywall.
Blinding tactical flashlights pierced the gloom.
“Boss, we have her,” a deep, gravelly voice announced.
. My father’s right-hand man, the syndicate’s chief enforcer. He stepped into the light, looking exactly as terrifying as I remembered from my childhood—broad-shouldered, scarred, his tailored suit hiding a lethal arsenal. He holstered his weapon and knelt beside me, his eyes softening marginally at the sight of my twisted leg.
“We’ve got you, Miss Sophia,” Marco murmured, sliding his massive arms beneath my shoulders and knees.
As Marco carried me up the concrete steps and into the brilliant light of the foyer, I saw the aftermath of the breach. Five heavily armed men in immaculate suits had secured the perimeter. The housekeeper was cowering behind a velvet sofa.
And then there was Ethan.
He was pinned face-down against his pristine Italian marble by a man twice his size, his arms wrenched painfully behind his back. Khloe was backed into a corner, weeping hysterically, mascara running down her bruised cheek.
Ethan wrenched his neck upward, his eyes wide with a terror I had never seen in him before. “Who the hell are these people?!” he screamed, his voice cracking. “What are you doing? I’ll call the police! I’ll ruin you!”
I looked down at the man I had vowed to love and cherish. I felt nothing but a cold, surgical void.
I offered him a bloodstained, brilliant smile. “This is Marco,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “He works for my father. And Ethan? You’re going to find out exactly who we are very, very soon.”
Marco carried me through the shattered doorway and out into the crisp night air. A convoy of black, armored SUVs idled in the driveway. At the center of the formation sat a stretched limousine, its rear door already open.
Sitting in the dim glow of the cabin was Vincenzo Romano. His aged face was lined with decades of warfare, but his dark eyes burned with a terrifying, apocalyptic fury as he took in my injuries.
“To the hospital,” Vincenzo ordered Marco without looking away from me. “And leave a detail behind. Make sure the husband understands he is a prisoner in his own home until I decide how he dies.”
As the limousine pulled away, the sterile smell of the leather interior washing over me, Vincenzo gently took my trembling hand. “You tried to live in the light, Sophia,” he murmured. “Now, we drag them into the dark.”
My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. A text message from an unknown number illuminated the screen.
The surgical suite at was a fortress. Entire floors had been quietly cleared, the hospital administration heavily compensated by Romano shell companies for their absolute discretion. I woke up to the rhythmic beeping of monitors, the heavy scent of antiseptic, and a dull, throbbing ache radiating from the titanium rod now permanently fusing my fractured tibia.
My father sat in a leather armchair by the window, peeling an apple with a silver pocket knife.
“The surgeon says you will walk without a limp,” Vincenzo stated, not looking up from his task. “A minor mercy. I have men preparing to dismantle Hayes Construction piece by piece. Ethan will be begging for the basement by the time I am finished.”
I pressed the button to elevate my bed. “No.”
Vincenzo paused, the knife hovering over the fruit. He raised an eyebrow. “No?”
“A bullet to the back of the head is too fast, Dad,” I said, the words tasting like ash and iron. “He humiliated me. He used my money, my trust. Khloe used my friendship. I don’t want them simply erased. I want them to watch everything they value burn to the ground, and I want them to know I lit the match.”
My father studied me, a slow, predatory smile creeping across his weathered face. “Speak.”
We spent the next three days turning my hospital suite into a war room. , the syndicate’s chief financial architect—a man who looked like an Ivy League professor but possessed the morality of a hungry shark—was brought in. He began analyzing every ledger, every offshore account, every tax return associated with Ethan and the Hayes family empire.
What Julian found was a staggering labyrinth of embezzlement. Ethan had been siphoning millions from Hayes Construction to cover massive gambling debts and fund his illicit lifestyle with Khloe.
But financial ruin wasn’t enough. I needed access to his digital footprint. I needed his soul on a hard drive.
“I’m going back to the mansion,” I announced on the fourth day, accepting a pair of crutches from Marco.
“Absolutely not,” Marco growled, crossing his massive arms.
“They don’t know who you are yet,” I explained, looking between my father and his enforcer. “They think you’re just hired muscle I paid off. Ethan thinks I’m a weak, battered wife. If I return playing the victim, desperate to save my marriage, he will drop his guard. He needs to believe he broke my spirit.”
Vincenzo’s eyes gleamed with dark pride. “The Trojan Horse. Very well. But Marco shadows you. If that boy so much as raises his voice, Marco will remove his tongue.”
Two days later, the front doors of the Greenwich mansion opened. Ethan was standing in the foyer, looking nervous but defiant. He had spent the week trapped in the house, surrounded by my father’s unseen sentinels.
I hobbled inside on my crutches, my leg encased in a heavy cast. I kept my head down. I let a tear slip down my cheek.
“Ethan,” I whimpered, making my voice small, pathetic. “Please… I just want to come home. I won’t mention Khloe again. Just… let’s fix this.”
The visible relief that washed over Ethan’s face was almost comical. His arrogant posture instantly returned. He genuinely believed he had won. He approached, wrapping a patronizing arm around my shoulder. “Of course, Sophia. We’ll put this ugly business behind us. You just needed to learn your place.”
I buried my face in his chest to hide the lethal smile spreading across my lips.
Over the next two weeks, I was the perfect, docile wife. And every night, while Ethan slept heavily, fueled by the scotch I deliberately over-poured him, Marco would slip into the study. Using the passwords I had lifted from Ethan’s phone, we mirrored his entire hard drive. We downloaded years of encrypted emails, illegal offshore wire transfers, and hundreds of vile, degrading messages between him and Khloe.
One evening, as I was transferring the final batch of data, a message popped up on Ethan’s unlocked phone resting on the desk.
From Khloe:
I froze. My eyes locked onto the screen. Why was Ethan’s father, , coordinating international shipments with Khloe’s family?
Marco stepped out of the shadows, looking at the screen over my shoulder. “Miss Sophia,” he rumbled. “It’s time for the anniversary party.”
The ballroom at the was a symphony of crystal chandeliers, cascading white orchids, and the clinking of champagne flutes. It was the delayed celebration of our third anniversary, a massive PR stunt engineered by Ethan and his father, William Hayes, to project an image of familial stability ahead of a major corporate merger.
I wore a floor-length emerald gown that concealed my walking cast, leaning heavily on a silver-handled cane. Ethan stood by my side, playing the role of the doting, fiercely protective husband for the flashing cameras of the society photographers.
“You look breathtaking, darling,” Ethan whispered, kissing my cheek for the cameras. His breath smelled of expensive gin and cheap lies.
“Thank you, Ethan,” I replied, my voice perfectly modulated. “Tonight is going to be unforgettable.”
Across the room, Khloe stood near the ice sculpture. She wore a dress entirely too tight, her eyes burning with a toxic mix of jealousy and resentment as she watched Ethan parade me around. Beside her stood her uncle, , a man whose legitimate shipping business was widely known to be a front for far darker enterprises.
The Hayes family—my in-laws—hovered nearby. William Hayes offered me a tight, nervous smile. He had been briefed by Ethan about the “hired muscle” incident, and though they didn’t know my true lineage, they knew I held leverage.
As the string quartet concluded their set, Ethan tapped his spoon against his crystal flute. The room fell silent. He stepped up to the microphone positioned on a small stage.
“Family, friends, esteemed colleagues,” Ethan began, his voice dripping with practiced charisma. “Three years ago, I married the love of my life, Sophia. She is my anchor, my guiding light, and the foundation upon which the Hayes legacy will continue to grow.”
The crowd applauded politely.
“And now,” Ethan continued, gesturing to the massive projector screen descending behind him, “a small video montage of our beautiful journey together.”
He clicked the remote.
The screen didn’t show photos from our honeymoon in Amalfi. It didn’t show our first house.
It showed the high-definition security footage from our own master bedroom. The crisp, undeniable audio of Khloe moaning Ethan’s name echoed through the Plaza ballroom.
A collective gasp sucked the oxygen from the room. Someone dropped a glass; it shattered on the parquet floor.
Before Ethan could react, the video cut sharply. It shifted to a spreadsheet. Julian Croft’s meticulous financial autopsy. Red circles highlighted millions of dollars siphoned from Hayes Construction corporate accounts directly into offshore shells managed by Ethan.
“What the hell is this?!” Ethan screamed, frantically mashing the remote.
Marco stepped out from behind the heavy velvet curtains, his massive hand clamping down onto Ethan’s shoulder with enough force to drop him to his knees.
I slowly walked onto the stage, the rhythmic of my silver cane amplifying the dead silence of the room. I took the microphone from Ethan’s trembling hand.
“It appears my husband’s definition of a beautiful journey involves bankrupting his family’s legacy to fund a hollow affair with my best friend,” I announced, my voice echoing off the gilded ceiling.
I looked directly at Khloe. She was entirely pale, shrinking back as the city’s elite stared at her with open disgust.
William Hayes rushed the stage, his face purple with rage. “Sophia, turn that off! Have you lost your mind? You’re destroying the company’s stock value!”
“The company?” I laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. I looked down at William. “Julian Croft has spent the last three weeks aggressively acquiring Hayes Construction debt. As of this morning, through a series of proxy shell companies, the Romano Syndicate holds a fifty-one percent controlling interest. You don’t have a company anymore, William. I do.”
The name dropped like an anvil. William stopped dead in his tracks. The color drained completely from his face as the realization hit him. He wasn’t dealing with a scorned socialite. He was dealing with the mob.
Khloe, realizing her entire future was currently burning to ash, suddenly shoved her way through the crowd. “You think you’ve won?!” she shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at me. “I’m pregnant, Sophia! I’m carrying Ethan’s child! He’s going to divorce you and marry me!”
The ballroom erupted into absolute chaos. But as I stared at Khloe’s desperate, lying face, Marco’s phone vibrated. He checked it, his expression darkening. He stepped close to my ear.
“Miss Sophia,” Marco whispered. “Julian just cracked the encrypted files regarding the Vance shipment. It’s not just embezzlement. It goes back twenty years. To your mother.”
The revelation paralyzed me. The air in the ballroom felt thick, unbreathable. I left Ethan blubbering on the stage and Khloe screaming about a fabricated pregnancy, following Marco out the service exit and into the waiting armored SUV.
We drove straight to my father’s heavily fortified estate in the Hamptons.
The estate’s library was a cavern of dark wood and the smell of ancient leather. Vincenzo sat behind his massive mahogany desk, a solitary lamp illuminating the grim lines of his face. Spread across the desk were faded, yellowing documents, old architectural blueprints, and a small, leather-bound diary I recognized instantly. My mother’s diary.
“Sit, Sophia,” my father commanded gently.
I sank into the leather chair, leaning my cane against the armrest. “Marco said it goes back twenty years. To Mom.”
Vincenzo’s eyes, usually so cold and calculating, shimmered with a profound, unhealed grief. “When your mother died in that hit-and-run, I tore this city apart looking for the driver. I found nothing. I thought it was a tragic accident. I was wrong.”
He pushed the diary toward me. “Julian uncovered the Vance connection in Ethan’s hidden files. Richard Vance’s older brother, , ran a demolition company two decades ago. They were contracted by a younger William Hayes to clear a residential block in Brooklyn for a new development.”
I opened the diary. The handwriting was frantic, rushed.
“Your mother was investigating them,” Vincenzo continued, his voice hardening into steel. “She discovered they were using illegal, highly unstable explosives to cut costs. During one of the demolitions, a local housing protester was killed by the shrapnel. Your mother captured the entire incident on a 35mm camera.”
My breath hitched. “They knew she had proof.”
“Christopher Vance ran her off the road to silence her,” Vincenzo stated, the words dropping like stones. “William Hayes paid for the cover-up. They buried the evidence, built their empires on the blood of that protester, and the blood of my wife.”
A new, terrifying clarity washed over me. This was no longer just about Ethan’s pathetic infidelity or my broken leg. This was an ancient blood debt.
“You killed Christopher Vance,” I realized, remembering the ‘accidental’ boating explosion that had claimed Richard Vance’s brother fifteen years ago.
“I did,” Vincenzo agreed darkly. “But I didn’t know I was killing him, only that he had insulted our family in a minor territory dispute. I didn’t know he was the architect of my wife’s murder. And I didn’t know William Hayes funded it.”
I stared at the blueprints on the desk. The current Hayes Construction flagship project—the East River Development—was heavily reliant on materials supplied by Richard Vance’s import company.
“Khloe isn’t pregnant,” I said, a cold, surgical plan forming in my mind. “She had a miscarriage two years ago from a reckless narcotic overdose. I covered for her at the clinic. Ethan doesn’t know.”
“What is your play, ?” Vincenzo asked.
“Call Julian,” I said, standing up, ignoring the ache in my leg. “We trigger the hostile takeover tomorrow morning at the emergency board meeting. We cut off their money. Then, we drop the guillotine.”
My phone buzzed. A news alert from the city’s top gossip column.
She was trying to weaponize public sympathy. She had no idea she was loading a gun aimed squarely at her own head.
The glass-walled boardroom of was perched on the sixtieth floor, offering a commanding view of the empire I was about to dismantle. The atmosphere inside was highly combustible. The board of directors, a collection of wealthy, nervous old men, murmured in panicked hushed tones. The company’s stock had cratered at the opening bell following the Plaza spectacle.
Ethan sat at the head of the table, flanked by his father, William. They both looked exhausted, desperate, projecting a flimsy veneer of authority.
The heavy glass doors swung open. I walked in, Marco a silent, looming shadow two steps behind me. Julian Croft followed, carrying a thick leather briefcase.
“You have no right to be here, Sophia,” William Hayes barked, standing up, his fists planted on the mahogany table. “Security!”
“Security works for me now, William,” I replied smoothly, taking a seat directly opposite him. I gestured to Julian.
Julian unlatched the briefcase and distributed thick, red-bound dossiers to every board member.
“Gentlemen,” I announced, projecting my voice across the room. “You are currently reviewing the forensic audit of Hayes Construction. You will note the massive capital bleed orchestrated by your Chief Operating Officer, Ethan Hayes, funneled into offshore accounts to cover his gambling debts.”
Ethan bolted upright, his face flushed. “Those documents are forged! She’s a vindictive, hysterical ex-wife!”
I ignored him, turning my gaze to the board. “Turn to page four. You will see the supply chain manifests for the East River Development. William Hayes has been authorizing the purchase of drastically sub-standard, defective steel from Vance Industries at a two-hundred percent markup, pocketing the difference.”
The boardroom erupted. Men began shouting, slamming their fists on the table as they realized their portfolios were built on quicksand.
“This is corporate espionage!” William roared, clutching his chest.
“This is a hostile takeover,” Julian corrected him calmly, adjusting his glasses. “The Romano Syndicate holds the majority voting rights. Effective immediately, Ethan Hayes is suspended as COO. William Hayes is removed as Chairman pending a federal criminal investigation.”
“You can’t do this!” Ethan screamed, lunging across the table toward me.
Marco didn’t even draw a weapon. He simply stepped forward, catching Ethan by the throat mid-lunge, and slammed him back down into his leather executive chair with enough force to crack the casters.
“Meeting adjourned,” I said, standing up.
As we walked out to the subterranean parking garage, the air felt strangely thick. The echo of my cane seemed too loud.
Marco suddenly stopped, throwing a massive arm across my chest. “Hold.”
From behind a concrete pillar, three men emerged. They weren’t corporate security. They were street-level thugs, carrying heavy steel pipes, their eyes locked on me. Ethan’s desperate, pathetic final play.
“Break her other leg,” one of them spat, stepping forward.
Marco sighed, a sound of profound boredom. He stepped in front of me. The violence that followed was entirely silent, ruthlessly efficient, and over in less than thirty seconds. The sickening crunch of bone and cartilage echoed in the concrete cavern.
Marco adjusted his cuffs, stepping over the three unconscious, bleeding bodies. He opened the door to the SUV for me.
“Ethan is out of moves, Miss Sophia,” Marco said.
“Good,” I replied, sliding into the leather seat. “Because tomorrow is William Hayes’s sixtieth birthday. And I bought him a present.”
William Hayes’s 60th birthday gala was a morbid affair. Hosted at his private estate, the attendance was sparse. The corporate elite had already smelled the blood in the water and abandoned ship. Ethan looked like a ghost, pacing near the open bar, downing scotch in a desperate attempt to drown his impending ruin. Khloe sat in a corner, playing the grieving, fragile victim of a phantom miscarriage.
I arrived uninvited, flanked by Marco and half a dozen of my father’s heavily armed men.
The sparse crowd parted like the Red Sea as I walked into the grand foyer.
“Get out!” William bellowed, his face mottled with rage and terror. “Haven’t you done enough to this family?!”
“I’m merely returning something you left behind twenty years ago, William,” I said, my voice cutting through the ambient noise like a scalpel.
I reached into my clutch and pulled out my mother’s diary, dropping it onto the center display table. Next to it, I dropped the original, unaltered blueprints of the Brooklyn demolition project from two decades ago.
William stared at the documents, his eyes widening in absolute, primal horror as he recognized the faded ink.
“I know about the illegal explosives,” I announced to the silent room. “I know about the protester. And I know you paid Christopher Vance to run my mother off the road to silence her.”
Ethan stared at his father, his jaw unhinging. “Dad… what is she talking about?”
“She’s lying!” William choked out, stumbling backward, clutching his left arm.
“I don’t lie, Ethan,” I said, turning to my soon-to-be ex-husband. “But everyone else in your life does. For instance, Khloe’s tragic miscarriage last week?” I pulled a medical file from Marco’s hand and tossed it onto the table. “Khloe miscarried two years ago due to a cocaine overdose. She is biologically incapable of carrying a child. The ‘pregnancy’ was a trap to get you to divorce me so she could access your non-existent wealth.”
Ethan turned slowly to look at Khloe. The betrayal on his face was almost pitiable.
“And William?” I continued, delivering the final, fatal blow. “He wasn’t just buying defective steel from Khloe’s uncle. He was paying Khloe half a million dollars a year from an offshore slush fund to keep her quiet about his affair with her mother.”
The room imploded.
Ethan let out a primal scream of rage. He lunged not at me, but at Khloe. He grabbed her by the throat, slamming her against the grand piano. Khloe, panicking, grabbed a heavy crystal decanter from the bar cart and smashed it violently into the side of Ethan’s head.
Ethan collapsed, blood pouring from his temple.
William Hayes let out a strangled, agonizing gasp. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the imported rug, clutching his chest as a massive myocardial infarction ripped through his heart.
I stood there, leaning on my silver cane, watching the architects of my misery destroy each other in real-time. Sirens began wailing in the distance. The federal authorities, tipped off by Julian Croft, were arriving for Richard Vance and whatever was left of the Hayes family.
I turned around and walked out the front doors, the cool night air washing the stench of betrayal from my lungs.
Two weeks later, I stood in the dense, towering bamboo forest bordering the back of the Romano Estate. The rain fell softly, pattering against the green stalks.
Ethan was facing twenty years for embezzlement and corporate fraud. Khloe was incarcerated for aggravated assault. William Hayes had survived his heart attack, only to wake up handcuffed to a hospital bed, facing life in prison for conspiracy to commit murder.
My father stood beside me, holding a massive black umbrella over us.
“You honored her memory, Sophia,” Vincenzo said quietly, his dark eyes staring into the dense forest. “You brought them to ashes.”
I looked down at my leg. The bone had healed, reinforced by titanium. I would never be the same woman who had walked into that Greenwich mansion, expecting a celebration of a fraudulent love. That woman was weak. She was a victim.
The woman standing in the rain was a Romano.
“I didn’t just honor her, Dad,” I whispered, turning my face up to the falling rain, feeling the absolute, terrifying peace of absolute power. “I rebuilt the foundation. And if anyone ever tries to burn it down again… I will bury them in the rubble.”
