Chapter 8

"Yes," my voice came through the encrypted line, calm and devoid of a single ripple. "List it immediately. Begin all sale procedures."

Silence hummed on the other end before the broker—the one who handled the DeLuca family's gray assets—spoke with careful precision.

"Understood, Miss DeLuca. Just to confirm… you're selling Safe House No. 7 entirely? Should I notify the current … residents?"

I let out a slow breath, one that seemed to have been trapped in my chest for years.

"Yes. All three—Leo, Tad, and Celia. They've lived there for years. I want the formal notice delivered only after I've left."

She hesitated. "Have they signed any lease or protection agreement?"

"No." My tone was flat, detached. "They've always lived there free of charge. It was meant to be temporary—never permanent."

Safe House No. 7 sat atop a downtown high-rise, equipped with its own security system. It was a gift from my father when I turned eighteen. At first, it was a modest two-bedroom refuge. After Tad and Leo—my childhood companions turned bodyguards—moved into the city with me, it became our base. A year later, Celia joined us after the family officially adopted her.

I'd once begged my parents to let me have that small autonomous space—a world untouched by the family's blood-soaked empire.

They thought I was naïve, foolish.

But I was simply in love—blindly, hopelessly in love with Tad, with the idea of us, with that fragile illusion called forever.

Back then, nothing mattered more than being together.

Now, everything I built with my own hands has turned to ash.

"I need you to prepare a detailed statement," I told the broker, my voice cold. "Every expense over the past four years—rent, utilities, security, daily costs—calculated at the highest market rate. Provide a full breakdown. If they can't pay, initiate … the clearance protocol."

"Understood." Her tone was brisk. "I'll handle the paperwork discreetly and schedule the viewing. No trace will lead back to the family."

"Thank you," I said quietly, then ended the call.

Next, I dialed another number—the contact responsible for managing the family's dormant assets and special items.

"I want everything in Safe House No. 7 cleared out," I instructed. "Furniture, weapons, electronics, collectibles—everything. Dispose of it all."

"All of it?" he repeated, genuine surprise threading through his professional tone.

"Yes," I said, final and sharp. "I'm not taking a single thing."

When the call ended, I stood for a long time by the window of my hotel room, wrapped in a silence so dense it felt like ice.

The place was plain but safe—far from the luxury of that apartment I once called home.

Now, in memory, that home felt hollow.

Those walls that once rang with laughter and promises now echoed only betrayal.

I could almost see myself walking through the living room again, fingertips brushing the leather back of that custom sofa—where we'd crowded together to watch old black-market films.

The cushions still carried Celia's perfume, sweet and synthetic.

The deep scratch on the coffee table's edge—Leo's careless gun misfire.

And the silver-framed photo on the wall—our smiling faces after completing our first family "assignment"—mocking me with its frozen deceit.

I remembered Tad and I, baking a miserable banana bread at two a.m., keeping watch between alarms for a possible hit. The first loaf burned black, and yet we laughed, splitting the charred remains like it was treasure.

I remembered our poker nights around the oak table, betting on who'd take the next bloody job.

I remembered believing that place was more than steel and concrete—that it was ours, a small kingdom amid chaos.

My fortress. My empire of trust and affection.

Now it was nothing but a ruin that needed to be erased.

Somewhere deep inside, a weak voice still whispered—*maybe it's not too late. Maybe if you forgive them one more time … *

No.

I'd already backed myself to the edge of the cliff.

I drew in a lungful of cold air and whispered, to the ghosts of my past and to the foolish girl I once was,

"Goodbye."

Then I picked up my suitcase—packed with weapons and what truly mattered—and walked out of the hotel room without looking back.

I checked into a nondescript inn near the private airstrip. A temporary layover until departure.

No farewells. No dramatics.

Only silence—absolute and irrevocable.

It wasn't peace, not really.

But it was the closest I'd come to it in years.

Sitting by the window, sipping espresso, I felt the encrypted phone vibrate—the unmistakable pulse of a secure transmission.

A message from Tad:

What the hell is going on? Why are strangers inventorying our weapons and gear?!

I didn't reply right away. Let him simmer in panic.

After a long pause, I typed:

That's a clearance notice.

Seconds later, his call forced its way through.

I answered.

"What the hell are you doing?" he shouted, the roar nearly splitting my ear. "Clearance protocol? Are they repossessing the house? Is this some kind of sick joke?"

"I sold it," I said evenly, my tone as cold as Siberian permafrost. "The final papers were signed this morning."

"You can't sell it!" he barked, losing his composure. "We didn't agree! That's our base!"

"I don't need your agreement," I cut him off. "The property has always been under my name. You never paid a single cent—rent, power, security, even the ammo you burned through."

He went silent for a beat. When he spoke again, his voice was low, dangerous.

"You're overreacting again. Listen, Nancy, we can talk. Stop this childish game."

"There's nothing left to discuss, Tad."

Through the window, I watched a private jet take off, the sound swallowed by distance.

"I'm done. With all of you."

"You don't mean that."

"Oh, I mean every word. And this decision has been a long time coming."

I ended the call.

No shouting, no pleading—just the sterile quiet that follows disconnection.

I stared at the screen for a moment, then scrolled to the top of my contact list—to the one name that had once meant everything and now signified the end.