OLEANDER
I sat huddled on the floor, vision blurred as I stared down at the photo in my trembling hands—my father and brothers, frozen in time.
Today marks six years since they were wrongfully taken from me.
November 7, 2019. A date burned into my memory. The worst day of my life. And every year since, the pain returned like clockwork.
Over time, I'd learned how to cope—barely. I drowned myself in anything that offered escape: schoolwork I was already failing, music blaring until my ears rang, and sleeping pills to sleep the day away.
But right now, I was stuck in Dante Corsetti's territory. Again.
And everything I had buried—grief, rage, helplessness—was clawing its way back to the surface. These walls held the worst parts of my memories, and yet the man responsible for most of them slept soundly under this same roof.
The door flew open, yanking me out of the past.
I flinched, head snapping up.
