chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven: Echoes Never Lie

The audio still echoed in my ears long after Luca stopped the playback.

"Amara… I'm sorry I lied."

I sat frozen at the edge of the table, staring blankly at the drive like it could morph into her face. My mother. The woman I'd buried in my mind two years ago, right after my father was killed. I believed she was gone—either vanished out of fear or silenced for knowing too much.

But now… now her voice had returned like a ghost dragging the past by its hair.

Killian crouched beside me, brows furrowed with something dangerously close to concern.

"You alright?" he asked.

I shook my head slowly. "That was my mother."

He nodded once. "Yeah. We got that."

"No. You don't understand. She's supposed to be dead."

Luca leaned forward, still tense from the shock. "You sure it's her?"

I turned to him sharply. "Don't you think I'd recognize my own mother's voice?"

No one spoke for a moment.

The air was heavy—tainted with old wounds and new questions.

Killian finally stood. "When was the last time you saw her?"

"Three days before my father was killed," I said, my voice a raw whisper. "She left to 'handle something,' and never came back. They told me she'd been taken. That she was collateral damage."

"Who told you that?" Killian asked.

"My uncle. The same one who trained me to kill you."

His jaw flexed.

Luca crossed his arms. "You think your mother made a deal to protect herself?"

"No," I said. "She made a deal to protect me."

Killian folded his arms. "And now Natasha's dead… and the message triggers. That wasn't random. That was planted."

"She must've known Natasha had access to something—something dangerous. Something that would resurface."

Killian's voice was low. "Something only your mother could explain."

I met his eyes. "Then we find her."

---

We started with the drive.

Killian had his best encryption analyst—an older hacker named Brex, who once faked his own death in Bolivia—dig through every hidden partition in the audio file. After hours of searching, he pulled up a digital tag embedded beneath the main file.

A name. A location. A date.

"Mariana Cortez. Lisbon. 3/14."

Lisbon.

Portugal.

A world away.

Killian stared at the screen, jaw tight. "You think it's real?"

"I don't care if it is," I said. "I need to see it for myself."

Luca raised an eyebrow. "You planning to walk into Europe with a target that wide on your back?"

Killian looked at me. "We're not walking. We're flying."

I turned to him. "We?"

"You think I'm letting you fly across the world alone to chase a woman connected to two murders and one of the deadliest enemies we've faced?"

"Yes."

He smirked. "Too bad."

---

Thirty-six hours later, we landed in Lisbon under forged identities and burner passports. The air smelled like sea salt and smog. The city was beautiful, but I couldn't breathe it in. Every nerve in my body buzzed with anticipation and fear.

We checked into a private flat under the name Santos, tucked near the Bairro Alto district. From there, we split up. Luca stayed behind to track any hits on our new identities, while Killian and I traced Mariana Cortez's records—hotel stays, utility bills, anything that tied her to this city.

It didn't take long.

Her name showed up on a water bill six months ago.

The apartment? A fourth-floor flat near the river.

We stood outside the door, my heart thudding in my chest.

"You good?" Killian asked.

"No," I said honestly.

He raised his fist and knocked twice.

A long pause.

Then—

The door creaked open.

And there she was.

My mother.

Older. Tired. Her dark hair streaked with gray. But it was her. Her eyes—the same eyes that used to stare into mine when she read bedtime stories—were rimmed with disbelief.

She staggered back a step.

"Amara?"

I couldn't speak.

Couldn't move.

She opened the door wider. "Come in. Before someone sees you."

---

The silence was unbearable.

We sat around a table in her small kitchen. Her hands trembled as she poured tea—like the act could somehow make this moment feel normal. But nothing about this was normal. Not the silence. Not the secrets. Not the years lost between us.

I was the first to speak.

"Why?"

She set the kettle down and looked up at me, her face soft with guilt.

"They threatened you."

"Who?" I demanded.

"Your father's enemies," she said. "Not just the cartel. The Bratva, too. He uncovered a trafficking ring that linked multiple syndicates. He kept records—he planned to expose them. I told him it was suicide. But he wouldn't stop."

I swallowed. "So you vanished?"

"I made a deal with Natasha. She said she could keep you alive if I gave her access to the documents and disappeared."

"You gave her the evidence?"

Her lips pressed into a tight line. "Only part of it. Just enough to stall her. The rest, I hid."

Killian leaned forward. "Where?"

My mother's eyes flicked to him. "And you are?"

He hesitated. "Killian."

Her jaw tightened.

"The son of the man who signed my husband's death sentence."

I cut in. "He didn't know. And he's helping me now."

She studied him. "You love my daughter?"

His silence said more than any words could.

She nodded, quietly. "Then understand what that means."

"I already do," Killian said.

Her gaze returned to me. "The files are in a bank vault. Under your father's name. You'll need his passcode."

"What is it?"

She smiled faintly. "Your name. Spelled backward."

I blinked. "Arama?"

She nodded. "He said… you were the only secret worth keeping."

The words hit me harder than any bullet ever had.

---

We left Lisbon at dawn.

Back in the jet, the files sat in my lap, tucked safely in a lockbox. Killian sat across from me, watching silently. We'd said very little since the meeting with my mother. The air between us was heavy again—but not with distrust.

With grief.

With guilt.

With knowing the enemy had always been closer than we realized.

Luca greeted us back at the safe house with news.

Two more of Natasha's allies had been captured. The network was folding fast.

But the intel in my hands? That would burn the whole thing down.

I looked at Killian as we stood alone on the balcony later that night.

"I could walk away now," I said. "Start over."

"You could."

"But I won't."

"I know."

He looked at me—this time not as the soldier, not as the killer—but as the woman who'd survived it all.

"You're not your father's legacy anymore," he said.

"I'm mine," I replied.

Then I pulled him close.

And kissed him like it was the only truth left.

Because maybe it was.