CHAPTER 6: The Secret
442 Words
The rain outside turned heavier, each drop against the window loud in the silence between the three of us. Adrian hadn’t moved — still standing between me and Vincent — but there was a shift in the air, something sharp and unspoken.
Vincent’s gaze was steady, almost too calm for someone in a room with the most dangerous man in the city. “You think you can keep her in the dark forever, Adrian? That she won’t find out what you did?”
My stomach tightened. “What are you talking about?”
Vincent’s eyes flicked to me, then back to Adrian. “You didn’t tell her the real reason you’re being hunted. Did you?”
“Vincent—” Adrian’s voice was low, lethal. “Leave.”
But Vincent only smirked, stepping closer. “Three years ago, there was a hit. The target wasn’t some rival boss. It wasn’t a politician. It was her father.”
The room tilted. My pulse roared in my ears. “My… what?”
Vincent kept talking, his tone almost conversational. “The papers called it an accident. Gas leak, small explosion. But it wasn’t. Someone paid a lot of money to make it happen. And guess whose name was at the top of the list?”
I turned to Adrian. His face was unreadable — no denial, no protest, just that same calm, dangerous stillness.
My voice was barely a whisper. “Tell me it’s not true.”
Adrian’s jaw clenched. “It’s not that simple.”
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Vincent glanced at me with something like pity — or maybe it was victory. “You deserve to know who you’re sleeping next to.”
Adrian moved then, fast, grabbing Vincent by the collar and slamming him against the wall. The firelight caught the edge of his expression — not rage exactly, but something darker.
“You don’t get to say her name. You don’t get to breathe in this room unless I let you,” Adrian growled.
Vincent only smiled, unfazed. “Tick tock, Blackwell. She’s going to leave you — and when she does, I’ll be there.”
Adrian shoved him toward the door. “Get out before I change my mind.”
Vincent straightened his coat, shot me one last lingering glance, and walked into the storm. The sound of the door slamming echoed like a gunshot.
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I stood there, my mind a blur of firelight and half-truths.
Finally, I said, “Adrian. Did you kill my father?”
His answer came after a long pause, voice rough, quiet, and devastating.
“I was there the night he died.”
TO BE CONTINUED
- Writer
