I don’t know what caused the fire, but I have a terrible gut feeling that my family is at the bottom of it.
Chapter 28
Rory
My pulse takes off as we race down the dimly lit corridor that leads to the garage, where we all pile into the biggest SUV we have.
Cian’s behind the wheel. He swings this boat around and barrels toward the South Gate of the estate. In the car, there’s horrible, heavy silence. None of us say anything or ask questions. How can we?
After getting hit with a bombshell of this magnitude, speechlessness is contagious.
It’s unimaginable. One of our three exclusive clubs in the city, one of three central pillars that holds this entire operation up, is ablaze.
My mouth is so dry, it hurts to swallow. My memory also keeps trying to rewind to Kiara, sitting small and alone in that chair as she recounted the awful details of her conception and how Leo never wanted her to be born.
I’ve never had the overwhelming urge to drag someone from the grave just for the express pleasure of murdering them again before, but I’d pay good money to tear Matteo’s guts out with my bare hands. It took everything in me not to rush over to comfort Kiara, which is totally fucked.
She lied to me. Betrayed me. For all I know, she’s Leo’s spy.
I huff and glare out the window. Even as furious as I am, I struggle to believe it. The disgust in her voice when she spoke of her family can’t be faked. Nor can the pain when she confessed that Matteo raped her mother. Then again, I trusted Alayna and look where that got me.
I drop my head into my hands. I’m beyond pissed. Hurt too. But I still feel guilty for freezing her out. Sharing her horrible life story couldn’t have been easy, but she did it anyway.
Regardless, I can’t think about this shit right now.
Cian barrels through the city streets, taking corners on two wheels. Pedestrians scream and shout in his wake, and stragglers dive out of crosswalks as he speeds through intersections.
As we near the club, we start to hear them. A symphony of fire truck sirens rising through the air like smoke.
Cian skids to a halt inches behind the police barricade that prevents vehicles from getting any closer to the building. Fire trucks parked in diagonals cover the perpendicular road while firefighters perch on their extendable ladders. We pile out of the car, and that’s when the nightmare truly hits.
Embers falling through the air like snowflakes.
Oppressive, smoggy heat bearing down on us.
And the top floor of the Raymond Tower—the shining jewel of our family for the past eighty years—going up in smoke.
Stunning flames lick at the night sky, lurching out from every side of the building like a bomb went off.
In the streets? Pandemonium.
Bystanders point and gasp from behind the police lines, and the patrons and employees of our luxury club—with their soot-marred faces and expensive, sparkling clothes in tatters—huddle and cry near ambulances, some of them even being folded inside on stretchers.
Closed body bags are wheeled away too.
Casualties.
The sirens fade away. All I can hear through this surreal moment is the echo of my pounding heart.
Lives lost. Millions of dollars’ worth of property destroyed.
Who knows how many millions more we forfeited in drugs or cash, both of which were often trafficked through our clubs.
Only one thought remains before we rush down the block toward this building’s secret entrance and climb up to the top floor to explore the ruins for ourselves.
The mole has taken too much from us.
When we find that motherfucker, I’m going to kill him myself.
