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Chapter 37
Last Updated:
2025-05-18 23:14:34.
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Chapter Thirty-Seven
It was not supposed to go this way.
The warehouse was colder than she expected, even with the heat of panic creeping up the back of her throat. Isla's fingers throbbed from how tightly she had been holding the ledger—her mother's ledger, the very one men had bled for and lied for and killed for. She could barely think past the thump of her heartbeat.
Christopher hadn't said a word since they got here. Neither had Marcus. Only the scuff of their boots on concrete, and Isla's panting every other step.
Victor Kane stepped out of the shadows like he'd been waiting. Always waiting. He didn't look surprised. Of course not. He looked. bored. Like she was just another story on repeat.
"So. You finally came."
His voice was smooth, familiar in a way that crawled along her skin. As if he'd been there all along—standing behind her memories.
Isla shifted, unsure what the hell she was doing, only that she had to do something. "It's over."
Victor cocked his head to one side, laughing. "You really think that book is the end of something?"
Christopher shifted then, just one step, but it was enough to remind her she wasn't alone. Victor picked up on it.
Oh. The new guard dog," Victor sneered. "She always finds someone, doesn't she? My mother found me. Look where that got her."
Isla's stomach turned. He needed her to react. He fed on it. However, the words didn't come.
"She believed people could change. She was mistaken in you."
Victor laughed. "She believed she could win. That's the joke.".
There was something in that laugh. it cracked something open within her. All those nights crying into her pillow, the shouting silence in her own chest when her mother had passed away, the years running and pretending she wasn't shattered. And then this man, this monster, standing there like he hadn't torn it all down.
She didn't think. She threw the ledger.
It hit him square in the middle of the chest, splatting on the floor with a wet smush. Pages burst out like feathers. Victor blinked in surprise—and Isla rushed at him.
But she missed him.
Christopher grabbed her, stopping just in time. Victor didn't move. He just glared at her like she was some wretched little kid throwing a tantrum.
Marcus stepped forward, uncertainly. His voice was gruff.
"You destroyed everything. Everything we built."
Victor turned to him as if he'd forgotten there was a Marcus. "You killed yourself."
And then—Lord, it was over so fast.
Victor pulled out a gun.
Christopher screamed. Marcus hit the ground.
Isla wasn't even aware she had screamed until her throat burned.
The shot echoed through the warehouse, hard and final. It went wide of everyone. Thank God. But close. Too close.
Victor did not run. He walked. As if he had all the time in the world. Walked to the book on the floor and dropped to his knees.
He flipped a page. And another. With a grin.
"You think this will bury me? This is paper and ink. You desire justice?" he looked up at her, face afire with emptiness, "You'll need something more than specters and pen.".
Isla moved closer, forbidding herself to acknowledge the trembling of her legs. "I don't want justice," she breathed. "I want you to be forgotten."
He froze. Briefly. Then he laughed again—not funny, but hollow.
"You believe forgetting is worse than being locked up? You're correct."
And then, in a burst of rage, he flung the ledger into the shadows of the warehouse and walked into the darkness. Marcus tried to follow, but Victor dodged behind one of the steel pillars and disappeared.
Just like that.
Gone.
The ensuing silence was excruciating.
Marcus swore. Christopher placed his hand on her shoulder and she flinched—she didn't know she was shaking. She didn't want to cry, but her body didn't care what she wanted. She rubbed at her eyes roughly and turned away.
"Take it," Christopher said gently. "Before someone else does."
They found the ledger. The spine was torn. Some of the pages had ripped. Isla cradled it as if it were a wounded thing.
"I don't know if it's enough," she said.
"It's a start," Christopher said.
And maybe that was all they had. A broken beginning. An open wound. A war no
t won, not even close—but a battlefield they lived through, at least for a while.
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