“You have eyes on the woman and the kids?”
“Affirmative.”
I glance at Barron. The way his face shifts, he knows.
“When I say go, burn it all to ash.”
“No! Not my wife, my children!” Barron’s mask crumbles. He thrashes against the restraints, panic flooding him faster than the blood spilling from his wounds.
“You brought this on yourself,” Liam hums, almost gleeful. “You wouldn’t talk, so now your family will.”
“You’re lying! My wife, she’d never-”
“Oh, but she already has.” Liam circles him like a vulture. “Your nanny reports everything to me. Your wife’s been done with your shit for years. She won’t mourn you. She’ll be relieved.”
Barron sobs now. A broken man. But there’s no redemption waiting.
“Liam’s not the monster,” Wyck says, voice low. “You are. He just finishes the story.”
“Now…” Liam turns to us, “what can I do for the new kings of Cliffside?”
“We’re testing loyalty,” Wyck answers. “Calling in favors. Seeing who still bleeds Devil red and who needs to be bled dry.”
“I’m in,” Liam says, no hesitation. “Always have been.”
“Good,” Wyck smirks. “When you’re done, I want his body in pieces. Delivered to me. Neatly labeled.”
“Consider it done.”
Barron screams something about justice, about loyalty, about the Elders.
Wyck just laughs. “Those who aren’t with us… die.”
We leave the basement, the screams echoing behind us like a hymn.
This is the world we built. Dark. Merciless. Ours.
Chapter Twenty
Athens
It’s been days since I told myself I’d read more of the journals, another lie wrapped in false comfort. I’ve been avoiding them like they might bite. Maybe because they already have.
But the Devils are stirring, the shadows are shifting, and pretending I’m fine doesn’t hold up when the air still tastes like ash and blood.
So here I am. Sunday morning. Sunlight spilling through the curtains like a lie I want to believe.
Coffee in one hand. Journal in the other. A different kind of weapon.
I flip it open.
The pages crack like old bones. The scent of ink, time, and pain rushes me all at once, and I realize I haven’t really been breathing.
Because the deeper I go, the more I feel it crawling back. That gnawing, festering question clawing at the edges of my sanity:
What the fuck happened to me when I was seven?
And why does every page feel like it’s about to tell me the truth I already know, but am too scared to say out loud?
