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Chapter 30
Tanggal publikasi:
2025-05-17 18:23:24---
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Chapter 30:Ramage of silence
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Rain pressed against the stained glass windows in slow, whispering drops, like the sky was too tired to cry any louder.
Vi was asleep—if you could call it that. Curled awkwardly on the old velvet couch, her hand still tucked beneath the pillow where the gun waited. Her lashes twitched like she was fighting demons behind her eyes.
At the dining table, Christopher sat hunched over his notebook, the pages littered with maps, crosshairs, and codes only he understood. The light above flickered, the kind of flicker that reminded Isla this place was only temporary. Nothing about it was home.
But Isla—
She was in the hallway, back pressed to the wall, arms wrapped tightly around her legs like she could hold herself together if she just curled up tight enough.
She hadn’t blinked in minutes.
And sleep?
It hadn’t even tried knocking.
Not after the words she’d heard.
Words that burrowed deep.
“She looks just like her mother…”
The moment Victor said it, something inside her splintered. Something old. Something hidden.
He wasn’t supposed to know her mother.
Hell, no one was supposed to even remember her.
And yet—he’d said it with such familiarity. Like she was a woman he'd once whispered to in the dark.
That thought made Isla sick to her stomach.
---
She shut her eyes.
And the past dragged her under.
---
She was eight.
The room smelled like roses.
And blood.
She didn’t know what the scent was back then, not exactly, but now she could name it—metallic and sweet. Like perfume trying to cover something that wouldn't stay buried.
The curtain scratched her cheek as she peeked through it. Glittering people filled the hall—diamonds on their necks, hunger in their eyes. Strangers. Always strangers.
They belonged to him.
Victor Kane.
He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t need to. He walked like a storm everyone pretended wasn’t coming.
Her mother never looked him in the eye. Not once.
She remembered that.
How her mother’s fingers would tremble while pouring tea.
How she always whispered, even when no one was around.
Isla had been warned not to speak unless spoken to.
But one afternoon—Victor had bent down. Smiled.
And tucked a red flower behind her ear.
“You’re going to ruin men, little dove,” he said, soft and slow. “Just like your mother did.”
She didn’t understand what he meant.
Not then.
Now?
She couldn’t unhear it.
---
Back in the present, the sound of the notebook snapping shut jolted her.
Christopher stood slowly, careful not to startle her. He crouched beside her, his voice low but firm.
“You need sleep.”
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“You’re bleeding.” He took her hand gently, holding up her palm.
Small half-moons dug into the skin—her own nails, clenched too tight for too long.
“I want to remember,” she whispered.
He froze.
“Isla…”
“I think I’ve seen him before. Not just now. Not through Vi. I think—I think I knew him. Before the fire. Before she died.”
“You think Victor was in your life before your mother’s death?”
“I know he was.”
The silence was sharp, charged.
“And I don’t think my mother just died, Chris,” she added. “I think she chose it. I think she was hiding me from him.”
---
Austria. Forest.
The ground was frozen, but the man walked barefoot—like pain didn’t exist for him anymore.
Ezra Quinn. White-haired. Unsmiling. Dead behind the eyes.
He hummed under his breath, something broken and melodic, the way a lullaby might sound after being buried for twenty years.
Around his neck: a rusted silver locket.
Inside it? A photograph of Isla.
He didn’t know her name. Didn’t care.
Victor had only given him a task.
Break her. Bring her.
No emotion. No hesitation.
If someone stood in his way?
He’d carve them apart, slow and smiling.
---
Isla. Floor.
The scream pulled her back. Not from outside. Not Vi’s. Her own.
She’d fallen. The floor was cold against her back, and her chest heaved like she’d been drowning in air.
Vi rushed in. “Hey—hey! Isla! What is it?”
“I saw him,” Isla choked. “Not now. Not recently. Back then. He was there… when she died.”
Vi stiffened, her entire body language shifting from concern to rage.
“You think Victor killed your mom?”
“No.”
Her eyes unfocused. Her voice was barely a breath.
“I think she loved him.”
---
Victor’s Office. Somewhere Unreachable.
The fax machine beeped.
Victor glanced at it once, then leaned back in his chair, pouring himself a glass of red. The light from the chandelier glinted off the rim like a blade.
Ezra had crossed the Rhine.
Perfect.
Victor smiled, the kind of smile only monsters wear.
“Bring her to her knees, Ezra.”
He took a sip, then muttered to the empty room:
“Just like her mother begged me to.”
---
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