In his vengeance

CHAPTER 3

Chapter 3

Isabella

“Lies won’t save you, Isa poker.”

My eyes go wide. How did he know? I haven’t heard that name since I was still a little girl growing up.

He raised a brow. “Surprise, huh?”

I just stared in silence, my mind racing with thoughts.

How in the hell did he know that name? It was only Dad who knew that name, Poker. She was a villain in a cartoon I watched once with my dad, a character that was so annoying and I hated. Anytime I destroy something, Dad would call me Isa poker just to get at me and tease me. It would make me mad.

But that was a long time ago.

Maybe he saw the tattoo? But he didn’t even get the tattoo done yet on his arms like he promised before he died.

I curled into a ball, one wrist still tied to the steel bed frame, my other hand gripping the blanket tight like my life depended on it, as if it could shield my present reality.

Now he would definitely think I am lying, but he is the one who kidnaps and accusing me of what I don't know. Saying Dad did some stuff to him, which is hard to believe, even if there is a tiny truth to it. What does it have to do with me?

Dad died while I was still a child, at ten years and mom did everything in her power to take care of me, while growing up.

Moreau is my last. But It's was just a name, isn’t it? I thought to myself.

Dante clears his throat, startling me and bringing me back from my thoughts into reality.

He places his hands in his pocket and pulls out a paper, it look a bit old but not that old on a closer glance, maybe just a few year ago, when he drew closer. He places it on the table then dragged the chair out with a screech that made me flinch.

“Don’t be surprised, I did my research.” He says with a smirk.

“You look like you have seen a ghost,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. His voice was smooth, but there was a dark humor beneath it.

He continues. “Sure, it’s not the first time one of your family did.”

Wait, what does he mean?

I swallowed hard. “You are making a mistake.”

He angled his head in amusement. “That's what you think?”

Let me clarify this to him once and for all; maybe he will understand this time.

“My father died when I was just ten. He had an accident and the car exploded in France.”

He chuckled leaning forward, digging his elbows into his chin.

“Is that so? “

I can’t believe he would think I would be lying about this. I clench my fingers tight.

“Yes. And he was a businessman.”

“No,” he said flatly. “He was a butcher. A traitor. A man who smiled while signing death warrants.”

He unfolded the paper, pulling out several photographs. I was surprised, thinking it’s just a paper. He then tossed them onto the floor at my feet.

I stared at them. Black and white surveillance images. Men in dark suits. A woman with blood pooling beneath her, her hand frozen mid reach. A child’s bracelet on the sidewalk.

I looked away. ”This... what does this have to do with him, it’s recent-- ”

He cut me mid-sentence. “Yes, 5 years ago.”

I furrow a brow in frustration. “What are you talking about? How does this have to do with me?”

“That’s your legacy,” Dante said, voice cold and rough.

“Your father orchestrated a m******e five years ago. A treaty between my family and his broken. He planted a bomb inside a child’s toy and called it business.”

“It’s not possible, he died a long time ago,” I yelled. “You are lying.”

“You really think after all this years I would go through all this trouble just to lie?”

My mouth dried instantly. “I don’t know what kind of monster you—”

He cut me off.

"Monster? You call me a monster now?" The rage in his eyes grew as he arched a brow as he grabbed my chin. “He murdered my mother, sister, and fiancée.”

I froze.

“He sent men to a family gathering under a white flag. My sister was eight. She was coloring on the porch. They didn’t leave enough of her for a coffin.”

Tears clouding my eyes finally let out; I couldn't stop them any longer. He said it with no emotion, like it was the most natural thing to say, giving me no room to process it all.

“But he died a long time ago, how is this possible?”

“You tell me.”

“It doesn’t make sense, I swear to you, I don’t know any of this, I never grew up with him since ten.”

“Still think you’re innocent?” he asked, his tone low but dangerous.

“You think blood doesn’t carry memory? That your last name doesn’t come with a price?”

“It's just a name, I’m not my father.” My voice cracked.

"Just a name?" he pulls my chin up, and I feel the pain as his fingers dip into my skin.

“You’re the last Moreau,” he says with rage.

“And that means something. Even if you want to pretend it doesn’t.”

I struggled to speak, but finally composed the words. “I didn’t choose this... I didn’t choose any of it.”

Dante closed the gap between us, his face just inches from mine, his hands still on my chin, I felt his warm breathe on my skin, and it sent chills down my spine.

“No, you didn’t,” he murmured.

Each word coming from his mouth more deadly and piercing than the last.

“But your father chose it for you, and that's all that matters.”

He leans closer and sniffs me, like he is trying to determine if I scented good or bad.

Something twisted in my chest.

A deep, bitter ache that confused me more than anything else.

I should hate him for doing this to me, but my anger tangled with fear, and I wasn't sure. I hated that a part of me wanted to believe him, but how on earth was Dad alive five years ago?

“If you are saying my dad is alive, where is he now?”

He wasted no time. “Six feet under the ground, I made sure of that.”

My eyes went wide as my heart hammered against my ribs. So now I am to believe Dad died the somehow resurrected, and was alive all this while, and now his dead again? I don’t know which one am more angry about. I need time to process all this.

“I have a life,” I said, choking the words out.

“A gallery. A future. You think you can just take that away from me because of something you claim my father did?”

“I don’t think, Isabella. I have already.”

I wanted to hit him.

“So, how would this solve your problem? Just killed me already, since that's what you want,” I muttered, not sure if that’s the option I really wanted.

“I have done that to the last one, and I must confess it was too easy,” he said.

“Death is quick and not satisfying.”

“This time, I want to try something new. I want you to feel every ounce of loss I felt before I finally dispose your body.”

“And then what?” I asked with bitterness in my tone.

“You’ll torture me? Drag me through your little revenge fantasy?”

“I want to kill you from within first.”

He stood again, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. “You’ll stay here. You’ll eat when I say. You’ll sleep when I let you.”

His lips curled into a smirk, but there was no humor in it, turning toward the door.

“I don’t need to torture you, Isabella. You will do that just fine on your own. Grief has a way of finding cracks.”

I shook my head, my voice low. “You’re sick.”

“No,” he said without turning.

“I’m broken. And your family did the breaking.”