The Metropolitan Correctional Center smells like industrial disinfectant and broken dreams. I've been here four times in three months, and I still can't get used to the way hope dies in places like this.
My father looks smaller every time I see him.
Vincent Castellano, once a powerful man, now sits across from me in an orange jumpsuit that hangs loose on his shrinking frame. His hair has gone completely gray, his hands shake when he reaches for the coffee I brought for him, and his eyes... God, his eyes look like a man who's seen the end of everything he ever built.
"You look well," he says, but his voice cracks on the words. "Rested."
"I look like his property," I correct, keeping my voice low. The visiting room has ears, and some conversations aren't meant for public consumption. "Which is what I am, thanks to you."
He winces, and I feel a stab of guilt that I quickly push down. I don't get to feel guilty. I'm not the one who sold his daughter to pay his debts.
"Elena"
"Three months, Papa. Three months I've been living in his penthouse, sleeping in his bed, playing the perfect companion while you rot in here. Don't you think it's time you tell me what went wrong?"
Vincent's hands shake harder as he sets down the coffee cup. The sound of ceramic against metal tables echoes in the space between us, loud as a gunshot.
"Some things are better left buried," he whispers.
"Some things get dug up whether we like it or not!!." I lean forward, studying his face. "He said something yesterday. About justice, but not for me. What did you do to him, Papa? What did our family do?"
The blood drains from my father's already pale face. "He said that to you?"
"Among other things." I didn't mention the kiss, the way Damien touched me like I was something precious and dangerous at the same time. I didn't mention the way my body betrays me every time he's near. "Stop deflecting and answer the question."
"I can't."
"You Can't or you won't?"
"I can't." Vincent's voice breaks completely. "Because if I tell you what I did, you'll never look at me the same way again."
"I already don't look at you the same way." The words come out harsher than I intended, but I didn't take them back. "The father I thought I knew wouldn't have signed away his daughter like a business asset. So who are you really, Vincent Castellano? And what did you do to make a man like Damien Cross spend years of his life planning our destruction?"
I see the exact moment my father realizes what I've revealed. His eyes go wide, then narrow with something that looks like fear.
"How did you know it's been years?"
Shit. I wasn't supposed to know that. Damien mentioned it in passing during one of our late-night conversations, when his guard was down and the whiskey was talking.
" When he looked at me like I was the answer to a question he has been asking his whole adult life".
"Does it matter how I know?" I deflect. "What matters is that it's true. For years he's been planning this. Building his empire specifically to destroy ours. That's not business, Papa. That's personal."
Vincent's breathing becomes shallow, ragged. He looks around the visiting room like he's checking for threats, then leans across the table until his face is inches from mine.
"Promise me something, Elena."
"I'm not in a position to promise you anything."
"Promise me you won't dig into the past. Promise me you'll serve out your contract and walk away when it's over. Promise me you'll let sleeping dogs lie."
"Why?" I grab his wrist, feeling how thin he's gotten, how fragile. "What are you so afraid of?"
"I'm afraid of what happens to you when you learn the truth." His eyes fill with tears I've never seen before. "I'm afraid of what will happen to both of us."
"Both of us?"
He pulls his wrist free, sitting back in his chair like he's said too much. "Your mother"
"What about mama?" The question comes out sharp and desperate. My mother died in a car accident eight years ago, but Vincent's been acting strange every time her name comes up lately. "What does mama have to do with any of this?"
"She" Vincent stops himself, glancing around the room again. When he speaks, his voice is barely loud. "She tried to warn me. Before she died. She said there would be consequences for what we had done. Said the past has a way of coming back to collect its debts."
Ice forms in my stomach. "What debts?"
"I can't tell you."
"You keep saying that"
"Because some secrets are too dangerous to share!" Vincent's voice rises, drawing looks from the guards. He immediately lowers it, but the desperation remains. "Because some things, once you know them, you can't unknow. And I won't do that to you. I won't take away what little innocence you have left."
"I lost my innocence the night I signed that contract," I say flatly. "Everything after that has just been education."
Something passes across my father's face: guilt, regret, maybe even pride. Like he recognizes the steel in my voice that wasn't there three months ago.
"You're stronger than I gave you credit for," he admits quietly. "Stronger than your mother."
"Don't!!." The word comes out like a whip crack. "Don't you dare use her to deflect this conversation. Mama is dead, and you're alive, and I need answers."
"Your mother isn't" Vincent stops himself so abruptly that his chair scrapes against the floor. His face goes completely white, and for a moment I think he might be having a heart attack.
"Papa? What were you going to say?"
"Nothing. I was going to say nothing."
But he wasn't. He was going to say something about my mother.
"Visiting time is over," a guard announces, but I barely hear him. I'm staring at my father, at the panic in his eyes, at the way he's gripping the edge of the table like he's trying to anchor himself to reality.
"Your mother isn't what?" I press as I stand to leave. "Finish the sentence, Papa."
"I can't." He stands too, his movements jerky and uncertain. "Elena, please. Stop asking questions. Stop digging. Just serve out your time and walk away."
"Time's up, lady," the guard says, moving closer.
I want to argue, want to demand answers, but I know it won't do any good. Whatever my father is hiding, he's not going to tell me here. Not with guards listening and walls that echo.
"I'll see you next week," I tell him as the guard starts to escort me toward the exit.
"Elena." Vincent's voice stops me at the door. When I turn back, he looks older than I've ever seen him. Older and more frightened. "Be careful. Promise me that, at least. Be careful who you trust."
"Even you?"
The question hangs in the air as the guard ushers me through the door, but I see the answer in my father's eyes before the metal barrier closes between us.
The ride back to Manhattan gives me time to think, which is dangerous. Time to process my father's words, his fear, his slip about my mother. Time to realize that everything I thought I knew about my family, about my life, might be built on lies.
Your mother isn't…..
Isn't what? Isn't dead? The thought is ridiculous, impossible. I went to her funeral. I saw her casket lowered into the ground. I've visited her grave every year on the anniversary of the accident.
But my father's reaction... the way he looked like he had revealed something catastrophic...
The penthouse elevator carries me up forty floors to my gilded cage, but my mind is racing too fast to appreciate the luxury. I need answers. I need to know what Vincent is so afraid of, what secret is so dangerous that he would rather see me trapped with his enemy than risk me learning the truth.
I need to know what really happened to my family.
The elevator doors open to reveal Damien waiting in the foyer, still in his business suit, checking his watch. He looks up when I enter, and I see something flicker across his face. Concern or maybe calculation.
"How was your visit?"
"Educational," I say carefully, studying his expression for any sign that he knows more than he's letting on. "My father sends his regards."
Damien's smile is sharp as a blade. "I'm sure he does. Did you have a pleasant conversation?"
There's something in the way he asks the question. Something that makes me think he already knows the answer. That makes me wonder if Vincent's fear is justified.
"We talked about the past," I say, testing the waters. "About consequences."
Damien goes very still. "What kind of consequences?"
"The kind that takes years to collect."
The words hit the target. I see it in the way his jaw tightens, in the way his hands curl into fists at his sides. In the way he looks at me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve.
"Your father talks too much," he says quietly.
"And you don't talk enough." I step closer, close enough to see his eyes. Close enough to smell his cologne and feel the heat radiating from his body. "But that's going to change, isn't it? Because I'm going to find out what really happened. What you and my father are both so desperate to hide."
"Elena." My name is a warning.
"What happened to my family, Damien? What did we do that was so terrible you spent years of your life planning revenge?"
He didn't answer. He just stares at me with those eyes, and I can practically hear the calculations running behind them.
"And more importantly," I continued, pressing my advantage, "what were you planning to tell me about my mother?"
The blood drains from his face so fast I think he might actually collapse.
"Your mother is dead," he says, but his voice lacks conviction.
"Is she?"
For a long moment, we stare at each other. Predator and prey, but I'm no longer sure which of us is which. The balance of power in this room has shifted, and we both know it.
Finally, Damien speaks, his voice barely loud.
"Elena, there are some doors that shouldn't be opened. Some truths that can't be known."
"That's what my father said."
"Then maybe you should listen to him."
"Or maybe," I say, stepping even closer, "I should start listening to myself. And myself is telling me that everyone in my life has been lying to me."
I see the exact moment he makes his decision. See it in the way his shoulders square, in the way his expression hardens into something cold and untouchable.
"Get dressed for dinner with the Handersons," he says, turning away from me. "We leave in an hour."
"That's it? That's your response?"
He pauses at the doorway to his study, not turning around. "That's all the response you're going to get tonight."
"Fine. But this conversation isn't over, Damien."
He disappears into his study, and I hear the soft click of the lock engaging. For the first time since I've been here, he's shutting me out completely.
Which means I was right. Which means there are secrets worth hiding.
I walk to my room because despite everything, I still think of it as mine rather than ours and start getting ready for another night of playing the perfect companion. But my mind is already working, already planning.
My father slipped and mentioned my mother in a way that made him look terrified. Damien went pale when I pressed about her. And both of them are acting like there's some catastrophic truth that would destroy everything if it came to light.
I sit down at the vanity to do my makeup, and catch sight of my own eyes in the mirror. They're different than they were three months ago. Harder. More determined.
Because I've made a decision. I'm going to find out what really happened to my family. I'm going to discover what Vincent and Damien are both so desperate to hide.
And I'm going to start with the one person who can't lie to me anymore.
I'm going to visit my mother's grave.
But first, I need to figure out why the thought of doing that makes my hands shake with something that feels suspiciously like fear.
Because what if she's not there?