If I Could Hate You

Chapter 12: This Is Just the Beginning

The call from Ethan came at a strange hour. I had barely sat down in my office when his number flashed across my phone, the urgency in his voice already setting me on edge before he explained anything.

“Michael, you need to come down to the headquarters. Now,” he said, his tone clipped, sharp, and nothing like his usual calm.

“Why? What happened?” I demanded, already rising from my seat.

“Just come,” Ethan replied, then ended the call before I could press further.

That was all I needed. I grabbed my jacket, shoved my phone in my pocket, and bolted for the elevators. Ethan never called like that unless something catastrophic had happened. My chest tightened as the car carried me down, the gut feeling already telling me this was not a simple broken window or petty vandalism.

When I pulled up to the FitzGerald headquarters, the flashing red and blue lights confirmed it. Several police cruisers were parked out front, their sirens still spinning, though muted. A crowd had gathered at the edges of the barricades, murmuring and pointing. Something ugly had unfolded here. Something bloody.

As I stepped out of the car, a voice behind me called my name.

“Michael!”

I turned and froze for half a beat when I saw Sophia rushing toward the entrance. Her heels clicked against the pavement, her face pale under the streetlights. She stopped beside me, breathless, worry written across her features.

“Ethan called me too. One of my coworkers… they said it was serious. Really serious,” she said quickly, as if trying to convince herself.

For a moment, I could only look at her. It was strange, the way fate had brought us here at the same time. I almost told her to turn back, to spare herself from whatever horror waited inside. But she was already moving beside me, brushing a strand of hair nervously behind her ear.

We walked together, though neither of us spoke much. She attempted small talk once, asking if Ethan had told me anything more, but my silence seemed to shut her down. I could not answer because I already feared what I was about to see.

And then we reached the cordoned-off section of the lobby.

The smell hit me first. Metallic, sharp, unmistakable. Blood.

Sophia stepped beside me, her heels clicking against the marble floor, and then she saw it.

The walls of the lobby, normally pristine and white, were smeared with crimson letters, dripping and uneven, scrawled across the expanse in thick strokes. “THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING.”

The words were written in blood.

But it was not only that.

Crucified against the far wall was the body of one of our workers. His arms were outstretched, nailed grotesquely against a wooden structure that had been bolted into the wall. His lifeless eyes stared blankly forward, the dried streaks of tears and pain still etched on his face. His shirt was soaked through, blood trailing down his torso, dripping onto the marble floor beneath him.

Sophia let out a piercing scream. Her hands flew to her mouth, but the sound broke through anyway, raw and full of terror. Then her knees buckled, and before I knew what I was doing, she was in my arms.

Her entire body trembled violently as sobs wracked her chest. She pressed her face into me as if trying to escape the nightmare unfolding before her eyes.

“Michael… oh God… oh God…” she gasped between cries. Her voice cracked, her words incoherent, and all I could do was hold her.

My own stomach churned at the sight. I had seen brutality before, but never displayed so openly, never meant as such a deliberate message. And I knew. I knew deep down who was behind this. My chest tightened, anger simmering just below the shock.

But Sophia was unraveling in my arms. She clutched the lapels of my jacket with trembling fingers, her tears soaking through. I tightened my hold on her, trying to steady her though my own pulse thundered in my ears.

Then she gasped again, this time sharper, different. Her body stilled, and when I glanced down, I followed her gaze.

Across the room, through the cluster of police officers, a tall figure had appeared. Broad shouldered, stern faced, with graying hair and eyes sharp as a hawk. He walked with authority, his presence immediately commanding the space.

Sophia’s lips parted in shock, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Dad?”

I froze.

The man stopped in front of us, his expression unreadable. Then his stern features softened for a brief moment as he looked at her.

“I wanted to surprise you, Sophia,” he said, his voice deep, rough with experience. “But I suppose the surprise has already been ruined.”

“Dad, what are you doing here?” she stammered, pulling back slightly from my arms though she still clung to me without realizing it.

“I was transferred from Queens to Manhattan. I am here to stay now,” he said simply. His eyes flicked down to where she was still pressed against me, and his gaze hardened instantly.

Sophia, realizing, stepped back, her face flushing crimson. She opened her mouth, but before she could explain, he cut her off.

“Michael FitzGerald,” he said, his voice slicing through the air like a blade.

I swallowed, straightening instinctively under the weight of his stare.

“Hi, sir,” I said, extending a hand.

He did not take it. His eyes narrowed instead.

“And who is he to you?” he asked Sophia, though his eyes never left me.

“He is just my… boss,” she said quickly, though her voice wavered with hesitation.

“Just your boss?” he repeated slowly. “Because the hugging did not look professional to me.”

“Dad, stop!” Sophia exclaimed, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment. She threw her hands up, almost desperate to defuse the moment. “Speaking of profession, don’t you have an investigation to get to?”

He chuckled, low and humorless. “Actually, I do. But Sophia, I need to speak to you.”

“Ok, I am listening,” she said, clearly trying to stand her ground.

“In private,” he said, gritting his teeth, his stare flicking to me again before tightening back on her. Without waiting for her response, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her firmly away.

I clenched my jaw but said nothing. Watching her being pulled out of the room left a strange hollow in my chest, though I forced myself to refocus.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw the name flashing across the screen. My father.

I slipped outside, ducking into the car parked at the curb. My hand trembled slightly as I answered.

“Hello?”

His voice rasped through the line, gravelly and cold. “I heard what happened.”

“Do you think it is…” I began, but he cut me off.

“Yes,” he said firmly. “I do not think. I know. They have called for war.”

My chest tightened.

“Starting now,” he continued, “you are not allowed anywhere without security. You do not leave your home before eight in the morning, and you do not step out after eight at night. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, my voice steady though my mind churned.

“I will be home very soon,” he added, a strange, almost mischievous tone lacing his words. “I am tightening up some loose ends first. But when I arrive, Michael, everything changes.”

The line went dead before I could answer.

I sat in the car, staring out at the flashing lights of the police cruisers, the words of both my father and the crimson message on the wall echoing in my head.

“This is just the beginning.”

And I knew it was true.