“Mom’s dead.” My voice cracks under the weight of my guilt, the words barely audible. But Uncle Harris hears, and Dad narrows his eyes at me in warning.
“Daniella!” he shouts. “Shut your fucking mouth!”
“It’s Dutch!” I scream back at him, fists clenched and hatred pouring off me. “My name is Dutch Buchanan! You’re not my father, I hate you. Ihateyou!”
Dad struggles against the agents holding him back, his eyes flashing murderously. Harris punches him in the face, and Dad staggers back, blood gushing from his nose. A part of me cheers at that, glad to see Dad the one getting hurt for a change.
“I’ll fucking kill you,” Uncle Cesare spits, three agents holding him back. He turns his dark eyes to me, narrowing them to slits. “And you too, little traitor. Watch your back. One day I’ll come for you. No one betrays the Gianelli name. No one.”
I stalk toward him, attacking him with a contemptuous glare. Mom always told me that I come from warriors. “No, Uncle Cesare. You watchyourback. One day I might just come for you.”
He sneers at me. “Big words from a little girl.”
“I won’t always be little.”
And with that, Uncle Harris scoops me up, carrying me out of the house where my father killed my mother. I make a promise to myself as he opens the car door, settling me inside.
One day, I’ll come back. And when I do, I will kill them all.
Chapter 5
Dutch
Sixteen Months Ago
Weakwintersunlighttriesits best to penetrate the thick dark clouds, heavily laden with even more snow.
My office is gloomy, matching my mood perfectly. Sitting on my chair with my feet up on the desk, I roll the gold locket between my fingers. The chain is small and delicate, easily snapped, the kind you have to be extra cautious with. The small oval locket has a filigree design etched on the cover. Inside is a tiny picture of a young woman, smiling happily at the camera.
The picture was taken before her world was torn apart. Before she met the monster that is my father.
The day Uncle Harris carried me out of Vincenzo’s house, he, Dante, and Cesare were arrested. They were charged with murder, child abuse, and perverting the course of justice.
My uncle shouldn’t have bothered. Although he may now be the director, back then, he was a regular agent, determined to take down Vincenzo and save my mother from the prison he had forced her into.
He didn’t know Vincenzo had informants in the FBI. Or that he played golf with the district attorney, or that he had numerous judges in his pocket.
I took the stand, shaken and terrified, but looked my father in the eye while I spoke of his crimes. My voice had stayed strong and true, the words pouring from me, his guilt clear in my mind. I spoke of the murdered maid outside my room, of how he beat my mother to death. And after, of the dark cage I had been forced to live in, sharing my space with mice, forced to relieve myself in a bucket.
Vincenzo’s attorney tore me apart on the stand. Accused me of being a jealous little girl, full of anger and spite. He claimed loudly that I made it all up. After all, where were these supposed bodies? The maid and Eilidh’s bodies were never found, no trace of blood, no evidence at all to suggest any sort of crime had taken place in that house.
The attorney spun such a believable tale even I started to question myself. Did that night really happen, or was it a dream that I mistook for reality?
As for me being locked in a cage, it was Vincenzo’s word against Harris’s, and since his attorney had already declared me a liar, those charges were quickly dismissed.
When Vincenzo walked free, giving me a look full of promise, I cowered behind Harris’s back, my heart thundering in my chest in fear. I knew he would come for me, that I would end up like my mother; alone on the floor, blood pooling around me.
Harris took me away to Connecticut, to a small white house at the edge of a town. The house was covered in rose vines and surrounded by trees, giving me a sun-dappled lawn to play on in the summer while my grandmother, Moira, sat on the porch with a book.
My play didn’t consist of bikes or dolls like other children’s. I would hit trees with sticks, pretending I was chopping my father in half with a sword. I begged one of the bodyguards to teach me self-defense, and another how to handle knives.
As I grew, so too did my abilities. Once I mastered knives, I moved on to guns. Harris would often sneak me into one of the FBI training centers to practice under his watchful eye.
By the time I graduated from the University of Connecticut with my degree in criminal justice, I was fully trained in several different self-defense styles, and highly skilled with both knives and guns.
I blew through my training at Quantico and quickly worked my way up, eventually moving to New York City—my father’s home turf.
Numerous attempts at taking him down have so far resulted in failure. But I’m determined. One day, I will destroy him and his kingdom.
