The ledger hit my desk with a dead, heavy thud.
I cracked the cover. It smelled like dust, old binding glue, and a faint, sick ghost of my mom’s Chanel perfume.
I knew her handwriting. Hell, I’d stared at it on enough birthday cards and legal trusts. But the ink on page one wasn’t her usual polished cursive. The pen had dug in so hard it nearly tore the parchment. A frantic scrawl. Someone running out of clock.
Aurora, If you're reading this, you finally asked the right question. I'm sorry. So damn sorry you have to learn this. Let's talk about the bastard who butchered our family.
I flipped to the next page.
The Cross family wasn't just old money. They were old blood. They'd been hunting wolves since the 1700s. Started off as pitchfork-carrying zealots in the Black Forest, but religi
