Chapter 5
We escaped East London before dawn.
The roads blurred as Euan drove with one hand, blood still seeping through the bandage at his side. Every siren made my heart slam against my ribs, but none came for us. By the time the city lights disappeared, I realized something terrifying and liberating at once—we were truly gone.
We stopped at a remote cottage tucked deep into the countryside.
"This is an old friend," Euan said as he helped me inside. "One of the few people I trust."
The man was older, grey-haired, with eyes that had seen too much to ask questions. He treated Euan immediately, stitching the wound with practiced hands.
"You're lucky," the man muttered. "Another inch and you'd be dead."
I watched in silence, guilt gnawing at me. He'd taken a bullet because of me.
Later, when the painkillers dulled the edges of the world, I finally asked the question burning inside me.
"Who are you really, Euan?"
He exhaled slowly. "Someone who owes your father a debt."
The name hit me like a blow.
"My… father?"
"You deserve the truth," he said. "All of it. But not here."
Two days later, once my legs could carry me short distances again, we moved.
This time, north.
To Scotland.
The village was small—so small it felt frozen in time. Stone houses. Quiet roads. People who looked at me with recognition they didn't bother to hide.
"This is where your father was born," Euan said. "And this—" he gestured to the old man waiting outside a modest home, "—is your great-uncle."
The man stared at me for a long moment before pulling me into a tight embrace.
"You have his eyes," he said hoarsely. "James's eyes."
Inside, the truth finally came out.
My father had known who my mother really was.
Isobel MacGregor—the feared woman, the hidden queenpin—had used legitimate businesses to mask bloodshed. Entire supply routes. Arms deals. Executions. And the people who suffered most were from this village. Men disappeared. Families ruined.
My father tried to stop her.
"He begged her," my uncle said. "Threatened to expose her. Told her he wouldn't raise a child on blood money."
So she destroyed him.
She dragged his name through court using influence no one could fight. Framed him for crimes he didn't commit. Ensured he lost custody.
"She told the judge you were sick," the old man continued. "Unstable. Unfit to live a normal life."
I felt sick.
"She won," Euan said quietly. "And your father went to prison. He's still there."
The room spun.
"All this time," I whispered. "She told me he abandoned me."
"She erased him," Euan replied. "Just like she tried to erase you."
My hands clenched into fists.
"Why didn't he fight harder?"
"He did," my uncle said softly. "But you can't fight a woman who owns the law."
Silence swallowed the room.
Then I lifted my head.
"Where is he?"
Euan met my eyes. "Still alive. Still waiting."
Something inside me hardened—not broke.
For years, my mother had weakened my body.
Now I understood why.
A strong Isla would have asked questions.
A strong Isla would have escaped sooner.
I stood up, ignoring the tremor in my legs.
"She took my father," I said. "She took my body. My freedom."
Euan nodded. "And now?"
I looked out the window at the quiet village she'd bled dry.
"Now," I said calmly, "I take everything back."
We stayed in the village for days.
Long enough for my legs to betray me again.
The medicine Euan had given me wore off faster each time. By the third day, the pain came in waves—sharp, humiliating reminders of how long my body had been poisoned. Some mornings I could walk the length of the house. Other times, I couldn't make it past the door.
Withdrawal, Euan called it.
"Your muscles are waking up," he said as he helped me sit. "They're angry. They've been asleep for years."
At night, the cramps were unbearable. My hands shook. My legs locked. I bit down on cloth just to keep from screaming. And through it all, anger kept me upright when my body couldn't.
Anger at my mother.
Anger at the lies.
Anger at the years stolen from me.
On the fourth night, Euan told me he was leaving.
"I need to meet Lorenzo," he said quietly, packing his bag.
The name still tasted like rust in my mouth.
"You're walking into the mouth of a snake," I said.
He didn't deny it. "I don't have a choice."
"And I do?" I asked.
He hesitated. "You need to find your father. That's your fight."
I turned away, staring at the small window, the quiet village beyond it.
All my life, choices had been made for me.
I thought of my mother—her power, her enemies, the men she'd crushed without mercy.
And I thought of Lorenzo.
He was a monster. I knew that better than anyone.
But he was also her enemy.
And something inside me clicked into place.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
Or at least… a weapon.
"I'm coming with you," I said.
Euan froze. "No."
"Yes."
"It's dangerous."
"So is staying behind pretending I'm safe," I snapped. "You think my mother doesn't know where this village is? You think she won't burn it to the ground once she realizes I'm gone?"
He stared at me, jaw tight.
"I won't beg," I added. "But I won't be left behind again."
Silence stretched between us.
Finally, he exhaled. "Lorenzo won't help you out of kindness."
"I don't want kindness," I said calmly. "I want leverage."
His eyes darkened—not with doubt, but with something closer to respect.
"You really are your fathers daughter," he murmured.
I straightened despite the ache in my legs.
"No," I said. "I'm hers."
And that was exactly why this would work.
If Lorenzo wanted revenge on Isobel MacGregor, then I was no longer a liability.
I was the key.
We left before dawn.
Toward a man who once broke me.
Toward a truth that could destroy us all.
And for the first time, I wasn't running blind.
I was choosing the war.