had been three weeks since I'd stepped foot outside Marco's world, and Daniel had stopped calling. I knew he was worried. Maybe even angry. But going back to my old life now would mean losing the one advantage I had—proximity.
Proximity to Marco.
Proximity to my father's secrets.
Proximity to the truth.
Revenge, I had decided, was like glass—fragile if rushed, razor-sharp when shaped with care. If I went home now, I'd be safe. But safety had a price I wasn't willing to pay. Not yet.
One night Marco poured two glasses of whiskey and joined me on the balcony. The city sprawled beneath us, glittering and endless. He didn't speak at first, and for once, I didn't push. The silence between us was heavy, almost brittle, as though one wrong word might shatter it.
Finally he said, "I was younger than you when my parents died."
I turned to look at him, startled by the rawness in his tone. Marco didn't do raw. He did control. Precision. Calculated charm.
"What happened?" I asked carefully.
His gaze stayed fixed on the skyline. "They were murdered. I was six. I was in the house that night, upstairs. I remember the sound of glass breaking, my mother screaming, and the gunshots. Then… nothing for a while. My uncle found me in the morning, hiding in the closet."
He took a slow sip of whiskey, but his hand was steady, as though he had told himself this story so many times that the words had lost their power.
"They were killed by men my father had once trusted," he continued. "They wanted what he had. Territory. Power. Money. It didn't matter that they were friends. In our world, friends mean nothing when greed steps in."
My chest tightened in spite of myself. "And that's why you…" I trailed off, searching for the right words.
"That's why I made sure it could never happen to me again," he finished for me. "I learned early that power is the only shield. That trust is a currency you spend carefully. That people will smile to your face while sharpening a knife for your back."
I studied him in the dim light. The sharp lines of his jaw, the faint scar at his temple, the way his eyes seemed older than the rest of him. I had always known he was dangerous, but now I understood why—he had been shaped by violence, carved into a weapon by loss.
And against my will, a flicker of something human stirred inside me. Pity, maybe. Or understanding.
"You were just a kid," I murmured.
He glanced at me, his expression unreadable. "So were you when your father left."
My heart skipped, but I kept my face neutral. He still didn't know.
"That's different," I said flatly.
"Maybe. Maybe not." He finished his drink and set the glass down, his gaze lingering on me a moment longer before turning back to the city. "The point is, we are the sum of what we survive."
Later that night, lying in bed, I replayed the conversation over and over. I imagined him as a frightened six-year-old, crouched in the dark, hearing his world fall apart downstairs. It explained his obsession with control and his ruthless efficiency. It explained why he could stand in a room full of enemies without flinching.
And damn it, it made me feel something I didn't want to feel.
But no amount of sympathy could change what I knew.
Somewhere out there, my father was moving in the same circles as Marco, planning something that involved me—something neither of them had thought I'd ever discover. I didn't know the full scope yet, but I didn't need to. The betrayal was enough.
I could understand Marco's pain without forgiving his choices. I could see the boy who'd lost everything and still hold him responsible for the man he'd become.
The following morning Marco left early, and I wandered the penthouse, my mind a tangle of conflicting emotions. I paused by the balcony again, looking out over the city. I could almost hear my mother's voice, years ago, telling me that anger only ate you from the inside.
But my mother had never been betrayed like this.
My father had abandoned me at seven. Marco had dragged me into a world I wanted no part of. And now, fate—or perhaps cruelty—had revealed that we were bound together by more than chance.
Forgiveness wasn't an option. Not now. Maybe not ever.
By evening I had decided. I wouldn't go back to my old life until I had the answers. And when I did, I'd make sure those answers cut deep.
If that meant sitting across from Marco at dinner, letting him think I was softening… so be it. If it meant smiling when I wanted to scream, I'd do it. Revenge, I reminded myself, wasn't always loud. Sometimes it was a whisper in the dark, biding its time.
That night, as we sat in the living room with the quiet hum of the city beyond the windows, Marco glanced at me. "You've been quiet today."
I shrugged. "Just thinking."
"About?"
I met his gaze, my face calm, my heart pounding with the weight of the lie. "About how life never really gives you what you deserve. You have to take it."
Something in his eyes flickered—approval, maybe. Or recognition. "You're learning," he said.
I smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn't reach my eyes. "I suppose I am."
Later, alone in my room, I opened my notebook again. More coded notes. More names. More pieces of the puzzle.
Marco's past was tragic. But tragedy didn't erase guilt. And when the time came, I would remind him of that—remind both him and my father that I wasn't a pawn to be moved across their board.
"I will stand where they least expect me," I thought, pressing the pen to the paper.
And when I strike, they won't see me coming.
Outside, the city's lights shimmered like stars trapped in glass, distant but burning. I stared at them until my vision blurred, my resolve sharpening in the quiet.
I wouldn't go home.
Not until every debt was paid.