Chapter 6 — The House In The Forest
1051 Words
Nobody spoke for a while after that.
Rain continued sliding across the SUV windows while Elena sat beside me unusually quiet now.
Not awkward quiet.
Thinking quiet.
That was more dangerous.
Because curious people eventually ask the right questions.
The convoy finally turned off the main road nearly forty minutes later.
Forest surrounded us completely now.
No streetlights. No nearby houses. Just darkness and rain.
Then the gates appeared.
Black steel. High walls. Security cameras hidden carefully between trees.
Elena noticed immediately.
“…This is a house?”
“Technically.”
“That is the least comforting answer you’ve given tonight.”
Fair.
The gates opened automatically.
The SUVs rolled forward through a long stone driveway before stopping near a large modern estate hidden deep within the forest.
Concrete. Glass. Minimal lighting.
Expensive enough to look cold.
I hadn’t been there in almost four years.
And somehow—
it looked exactly the same.
The older man stepped out first.
“We’re here.”
Elena stayed seated another second staring at the house.
Then quietly:
“I miss when my biggest problem tonight was kitchen knives.”
Honestly?
Reasonable.
We stepped out into the rain.
Cold air hit immediately while armed security moved silently around the property perimeter.
Not clan security.
Different.
Private network.
My father trusted almost nobody these days.
For good reason.
The front doors opened before we reached them.
And suddenly—
there he was.
Ethan Hayes looked older.
That was my first thought.
Not weak. Not fragile.
Just tired in a way I didn’t remember.
Tall. Calm eyes. American accent softened slightly by years overseas.
For one second neither of us moved.
Then he spoke first.
“You got taller.”
I stared at him.
“…That’s your opening line?”
His mouth twitched slightly.
“Honestly, I prepared something better.”
That almost felt normal.
Almost.
Elena looked between both of us carefully.
Probably trying to understand how two people so emotionally restrained somehow still looked related.
Ethan’s eyes shifted toward the blood on my coat immediately.
His expression hardened.
“You’re injured.”
“Barely.”
“You still say that too casually.”
And somehow—
he sounded exactly like my mother when he said it.
That hit harder than expected.
Ethan looked toward Elena next.
More careful now.
“You must be Elena.”
She blinked once.
“…How do you know my name?”
“Because half the criminal networks in Europe currently want you dead.”
Silence.
Then Elena looked at me.
“…You know what? I’m actually getting tired of hearing that sentence.”
Honestly?
Fair again.
Ethan stepped aside slightly.
“Come inside before someone starts shooting at my house too.”
The way he said that so casually probably should’ve worried her more.
—
The estate interior felt warmer than expected.
Wood floors. Soft lighting. Fireplace burning quietly deeper inside the living room.
Not what most people imagine when hearing “former assassin.”
Elena noticed family photos almost immediately.
That surprised me.
Because there weren’t many.
My mother hated cameras.
Still—
a few remained.
One photo stopped Elena completely.
Me at maybe eight years old sitting on my father’s shoulders while my mother laughed beside us.
Normal family picture.
Normal life.
Or at least something close to it.
Elena stared quietly at the photo.
Then slowly looked toward me.
And I already knew what she was thinking.
You looked happy.
Yeah.
I did.
Ethan noticed the silence too.
His expression shifted slightly before he walked toward the kitchen.
“You both need food.”
“I’m not hungry,” I replied.
“You say that every time.”
“And you ignore it every time.”
“Correct.”
That almost made Elena smile despite everything.
Interesting.
She watched my father carefully while he moved around the kitchen naturally.
Comfortably.
Then quietly asked me:
“He doesn’t seem like…”
She hesitated.
“Like what?”
“Like someone who raised an assassin.”
I looked toward Ethan briefly.
Then back at her.
“He didn’t.”
That answer stayed between us heavily.
A few minutes later we sat around the kitchen island while Ethan placed coffee and food down like tonight wasn’t completely insane.
Elena looked exhausted now.
Adrenaline crash probably.
Still processing everything.
Then Ethan finally looked directly at me again.
“The contract on your head reached New York thirty minutes ago.”
I stayed calm outwardly.
Inside?
Not ideal.
Elena frowned.
“What contract?”
Ethan answered before I could.
“Someone placed ten million euros on Damian’s death.”
Silence.
Elena slowly turned toward me.
“…How are you this calm about that?”
Good question honestly.
I leaned back slightly in the chair.
“Because panic usually makes things worse.”
“That’s deeply unhealthy.”
Probably.
Ethan watched both of us quietly for a second before speaking again.
“The people after Elena aren’t independent traffickers.”
My attention sharpened immediately.
“What are they?”
His expression darkened slightly.
“Connected.”
Simple word.
Heavy meaning.
Because in our world, connected meant: politicians, intelligence officers, corporations, organized crime.
People protected from consequences.
Elena frowned slightly.
“Connected to what?”
Ethan looked directly at her.
“To people powerful enough that exposing them publicly would never work.”
That hit her harder than the violence earlier.
I could see it immediately.
Because idealistic people can process danger.
What destroys them is realizing systems themselves are rotten.
She looked down briefly.
“…Then what’s the point of journalism?”
Nobody answered immediately.
Rain echoed softly outside the estate windows.
Then surprisingly—
I answered.
“So people like them never fully control the truth.”
Elena looked up at me slowly after that.
And something changed slightly in her expression.
Not fear. Not confusion.
Understanding.
Dangerous thing to build between two people.
Especially people like us.
Then Ethan quietly said something that shifted the atmosphere instantly again.
“They know you protected her.”
I looked toward him immediately.
“How?”
“They intercepted apartment footage before cleanup.”
Not good.
Very not good.
Ethan folded his arms lightly.
“And now they’re asking the same question I am.”
Silence.
Then:
“Why didn’t you kill her?”
- Writer
