chapter 12

Chapter Twelve: Red Hands, Black Heart

The vault was hidden in a forgotten building behind a crumbling cathedral in Palermo.

It was never meant to be found—especially not by the daughter of the man who hid the sins of kings and criminals. But I wasn't just anyone anymore. And I wasn't afraid of ghosts. Not his. Not mine.

The rain had followed us across Europe. Killian and I stood under the awning outside the bank, water soaking through the bottom of my jeans. My fingers trembled slightly, the key clutched tight in my hand.

"You sure about this?" Killian asked beside me.

"No," I said. "But I've never been more certain that it needs to be done."

We entered the vault in silence. The security man didn't recognize my father's name, but the access code worked. He led us down a dim corridor lined with rusted deposit boxes and old marble.

Box 47C.

My father's last secret.

I opened it with a slow, deliberate breath.

Inside wasn't cash.

It wasn't diamonds or drugs.

It was war.

Two thick manila folders, a black flash drive, and a small, leather-bound notebook.

Killian took the flash drive and slid it into his pocket, eyes scanning the room.

I opened the notebook.

My father's handwriting filled the first page.

"They thought I was blind. They thought I'd obey. But no man can serve two masters—not the gun, and not the truth."

I flipped the pages quickly, my heart pounding. Names. Bank transactions. Photos. Dates. A timeline of deals that stretched across continents. Bribes. Shipments. Orders. Every move made by the syndicates over the last ten years.

And at the center?

The Moretti name.

And not just Killian's father.

Killian's brother.

I looked up slowly.

"Killian…"

He raised a brow, but his face paled slightly. "What?"

I handed him the page.

There it was.

Dominic Moretti.

Alive.

Operating out of Berlin. Fronting a shipping empire. Trafficking guns and bodies through Eastern Europe under an alias: Viktor Alinov.

"I thought he died five years ago," Killian whispered.

"So did your father," I said. "Until he faked the death certificate and moved Dominic underground."

Killian paced, running a hand through his hair.

"This changes everything."

"It means Natasha wasn't the top of the chain," I said. "She was just a leash."

"And Dominic was holding it."

We stood there in silence, the truth pressing down on us like a stone.

Then he turned to me, eyes cold.

"I have to kill him."

"Killian—"

"No." He stepped forward, voice low. "This isn't revenge. It's correction."

He took the flash drive and folder.

"We leave in twenty-four hours."

---

Back at the compound, the air was charged.

Luca met us in the war room, face grim.

"You're not gonna like this," he said.

Killian's face hardened. "Tell me."

"Someone leaked your travel logs."

Killian's hands clenched.

"Who?"

"We don't know yet. But the signal pinged from inside the compound."

"Which means the betrayal came from family," I said quietly.

"Or someone we trust like it," Luca added.

Killian's expression was unreadable.

"Check everyone," he ordered. "No one leaves. No one speaks. Until I know who sold us out."

He turned to me.

"I need you close."

I blinked. "What does that mean?"

"It means if they're watching me, they're watching you. And I won't lose you too."

---

That night, I sat in Killian's quarters, his shirt wrapped around me like armor. The room was dark, lit only by the blue glow of the city through the window.

Killian sat on the couch, eyes distant, drink in hand.

"Your brother…" I began.

"Was supposed to die," he finished.

"Why didn't your father kill him?"

"He said Dominic reminded him of himself," he said bitterly. "Too violent to be tamed. Too smart to be controlled. He didn't love him. He feared him."

"And you?"

"I buried him in my mind years ago," Killian said. "I thought I could rewrite the legacy if I outlived it."

He stood, setting the glass down.

"But I was wrong. Legacy isn't something you outrun. It's something you either burn… or become."

I walked over, placing a hand on his chest.

"You don't have to be him."

"No," he said. "But I have to end him."

He kissed me then.

Hard. Desperate. Like he knew it might be the last time.

And maybe it was.

---

Morning arrived with blood.

I woke to shouting down the corridor. My heart jumped as I reached for my gun and flung the door open.

Luca met me in the hall, fury in his eyes.

"We found the leak."

"Who?"

He stepped aside.

And my stomach dropped.

Marcos.

Killian's second-in-command.

The man who held Killian's father's dying body.

The man who trained the eastern crew.

The man who stood beside us when Natasha fell.

And now?

The man who betrayed us all.

He was on his knees, hands cuffed behind his back, a gash over his eye.

Killian stood in front of him, face blank, gun already drawn.

"Why?" he asked.

Marcos spit on the ground. "Because you forgot who built this empire. It wasn't you. It was blood. Your father's. Mine. Dominic's. You came in with your rules and your guilt and tried to turn a crime family into a sanctuary."

Killian's jaw twitched.

"We lost men under your orders," Marcos snarled. "You buried loyalty for idealism. That's not how power works."

"You chose Dominic over me?" Killian asked.

"I chose survival."

Killian didn't move.

I did.

I walked forward, heart racing, gun raised.

Marcos looked at me and laughed.

"Daddy's little killer," he sneered.

"Shut up."

"You think he loves you?" he asked, nodding toward Killian. "He loves the idea of you. But when it comes time to choose, he'll always pick the empire."

I didn't hesitate.

One shot.

Through his shoulder.

He screamed, collapsing to the floor.

Killian looked at me—surprised, impressed, maybe even relieved.

"I wasn't going to kill him yet," he said.

"You still can," I replied. "But now he'll talk first."

And he would.

Because nothing spills faster than a man with a broken shoulder and no loyalty left.

---

We had names.

We had routes.

We had Dominic's next move.

But we also had something bigger:

War.

And this time, it wasn't about revenge.

It was about survival.

Killian sat across from me later that night, blood still drying on his shirt, knuckles raw from interrogation.

"You ready for Berlin?" he asked.

I nodded.

"What if we don't come back?"

I met his eyes, steady.

"Then we die with our red hands clean."

He reached across the table.

Gripped my fingers.

And whispered—

"Then let's finish what they started."