I took a deep breath, forcing myself to say the words I'd been avoiding for eighteen years. "He raped me, Lo. Six nights in a row, he sexually assaulted me. And for years, I couldn't even call it that. Couldn't admit what it actually was."
"That manipulative fucking piece of shit," Lo whispered, rage burning in his eyes.
I nodded, a bitter smile twisting my lips. "Yeah. Took me years to understand what he'd actually done. Even longer to say it out loud."
Lo reached across the table, his hand covering my clenched fist. It was such an uncharacteristic gesture from him—genuine compassion without deflection or humor—that it nearly broke me. The warmthof his hand against my ice-cold fingers made me realize how deeply I'd sunk into the memory.
"Does Vincent know?" he asked.
I nodded, something uncurling in my chest at the thought of Vincent. "First person who saw it for what it was, who didn't tell me to just get over it or that I should be flattered."
"And that's why you have to go after Prometheus yourself," Lo said, not a question but a statement.
"He doesn't just want Vincent dead," I explained. "He wants me back. Under his control. He can't stand that I broke away, that I chose Vincent over him. It's not about the contract anymore. It's personal."
"In that case, I understand.”
"Really?" I asked, studying him closely. “You’re not going to stop me?”
"And deprive my ride-or-die bestie from his well-earned revenge? I'm a cold bastard with a heart made of ice, but even I'm not that heartless."
The door to the VIP room swung open without warning. Both of us reached for weapons instinctively before recognizing the figure who sauntered in.
Rhadamanthys leaned against the doorframe, dark eyes gleaming beneath the brim of his Stetson. The pearl-handled revolver at his hip caught the crimson light like a bloodstain. My muscles coiled tight, the vulnerable moment with Lo instantly buried under combat-ready tension.
"Ah, what a charming tableau," he drawled, Calabrian accent thick as honey laced with poison. "Conspirators plotting in the shadows, whispers of rebellion and revenge. How magnificently operatic, no?"
I tensed, fingers itching for my weapon, the weight of my Glock a comforting promise against my ribs. "This is a private conversation."
Rhadamanthys pushed off from the doorframe, boots clicking against the marble as he strode into the room. He settled into a chair uninvited. "Privacy is an illusion within these walls, piccolo. Especially when one plots the assassination of a Pantheon director. Such delicious treachery."
Ice settled in my gut. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Per favore." He waved one manicured hand dismissively, gold rings flashing. "Let us not play the fools in this little drama. You seek Prometheus's blood. A noble quest, truly, but one that violates our most sacred codes."
"Codes?" I repeated, bitterness flooding my mouth. "What about the code against grooming children? Against using them as weapons? Against taking my sister and turning her into his fucking wife?"
Rhadamanthys's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind his eyes, like a shark circling closer. "Personal vendettas, regardless of how justified, cannot supersede the Pantheon's order. You understand what fate awaits you should you succeed, si?"
"Tartarus," I said flatly.
He tipped his hat slightly. "The Tribunal must maintain the balance, even in extraordinary circumstances. Such is the burden of justice."
"I don't care," I said. "He dies tonight."
Rhadamanthys studied me, head tilted like a bird of prey considering whether to strike. "Your conviction is admirable, if foolish. The passion of vengeance makes for such beautiful tragedy." He stood, adjusting his bolo tie with theatrical precision. "One cannot stop you, nor would one wish to, if truth be told. But remember—when Prometheus falls, there will be consequences. The Tribunal will have no choice."
"I'll deal with it then," I replied.
He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a tone I'd never heard from him before—almost gentle. "And what of your therapist, hmm? This man for whom you've risked everything? What becomes of him when you are gone?"
My jaw tightened. "I've made arrangements."
"Arrangements." He rolled the word on his tongue like fine wine. "The Pantheon has a long memory and a longer reach." His eyes caught mine, holding them with surprising intensity. "Once, I stood where you stand now. Vengeance burning in my veins. I chose that path, and what I destroyed was not only my enemy."
"This isn't about me," I said, but my voice lacked conviction even to my own ears.
"Consider this—the greatest revenge against Prometheus would not be his death, but your life. Your happiness." He glanced at the door, as if he could see through it to the Acropolis beyond. "That therapist of yours looks at you the way most of us can only dream of being seen."
