We returned to the estate under the cover of predawn shadows, the sky just beginning to pale with the first traces of morning. The ride from Thea's house had been silent, tension thick enough to suffocate. Now, I lay in bed, my ribs bandaged where the glass shard had torn into me. The fresh wound pulsed with every beat of my heart, a steady, painful reminder of how close I had come to losing everything.

Sunlight crept through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes that floated lazily in the air. Across the room, my mother's heels clicked against the polished wood as she paced back and forth, her sharp voice slicing through the quiet as she barked orders into her phone.

"No," she snapped, her hand tightening around the device. "I want him brought home immediately. No more delays. Do you understand?"

I clenched my teeth against the ache in my chest, my fingers fumbling with the blood-smeared screen of my phone. The crimson stains had dried, dark and cracked, but I hadn't bothered to clean it. There were more important things to worry about.

The line clicked, and Nate's voice came through, steady as always.

"Talk to me."

"Where's my father?"

"Ten minutes out. I'm with him."

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Relief was fleeting—a shallow exhale that did nothing to calm the storm brewing in my head.

"Bring him home safe," I muttered before ending the call.

Pain flared as I moved my arm to drop the phone, a sharp, white-hot sting that shot through my side and knocked the air from my lungs.

"Fuck," I hissed, my breath ragged.

The phone bounced onto the bed as I clutched my ribs. My mother's sharp eyes darted to me, concern flashing across her face as she ended her call. She approached with measured steps, the sharp scent of her perfume cutting through the air as she perched on the edge of the bed.

"Where is he?" she asked quietly.

"On his way back," I ground out. "Nate's with him."

Her expression softened briefly before her brow furrowed again. "And Kline? Is he...?"

I didn't answer. The question hung between us, heavy and unanswered. I couldn't offer her the reassurance she was seeking.

"He'll be fine, Mom." The words felt hollow, even as I said them.

I gritted my teeth as I shifted on the bed, the ache in my ribs making every breath a struggle. Waiting was the hardest part. My father was on the way back from the hospital, visiting our head of security—a casualty in the blast that had been meant for him. I couldn't shake the bitter taste of it. A failed attempt. A warning.

Across the room, my mother paced, her slender frame taut with barely restrained fury. Her elegance was as sharp as a blade, but tonight, her eyes held something raw.

"Do we know anything?" she asked, her voice low but urgent.

I met her gaze, the weight of truth pressing heavy on my chest. "Santini," I said, the name falling from my lips like a curse. "Dominic's orders."

Her hand trembled for a fraction of a second before she clenched it into a fist. "He's moving against us."

I nodded, grimacing as pain lanced through my side. My fingers pressed against the wound, a futile attempt to steady myself. "It's only a matter of time until Damien orders Miller to do the same," I muttered. The name Miller hung between us, a name that carried death in its shadow. "And Miller won't hold back like Santini."

A silence stretched, thick with the inevitability of what lay ahead.

My mother's jaw tightened. "The brothers are on the move. We need to be ready."

"We will be," I promised, the words a vow and a warning.

She reached for my arm as I tried to rise, her hand steady but gentle. "You need to rest, Conrad. Your body—"

"I'm fine," I interrupted, teeth gritted as I pushed her hand away. "I need to check something in the office."

"You need to heal."

Her words came sharper now, her grip firm, but I pulled free.

"I don't have time to rest."

"Conrad—"

"An hour," I cut her off. "No interruptions."

She stared after me as I left, her unspoken words following like shadows.

In my office, silence greeted me—cold and heavy, like a second skin. I shut the door behind me, each step a fresh stab of agony that I refused to acknowledge. The room smelled of leather and faint traces of coffee, the familiar scents doing little to ease my fraying nerves.

The desk was a mess of papers and half-drunk coffee. I tore through the files, scattering documents as I searched for the truth that had eluded me. My hands moved with a brutal efficiency, flipping pages and scanning names.

Santini had gotten too close. Someone had let him in. And if it happened once, it could happen again.

I couldn't wait until Miller got wind of this, he wouldn't stop until there was nothing left.

My fingers stilled as my gaze fell on a red folder that had slipped to the floor. I crouched, ignoring the pain that knifed through my ribs, and picked it up. The worn cover felt heavy in my hands, heavier than it should have.

I poured a measure of whisky, the amber liquid swirling as I debated whether to drink it. A bitter laugh escaped me—there was no debate.

I drank.

Then I opened the file.

Theodora Lane.

Her photograph stared back at me, dark eyes full of secrets. The whisky burned on the way down as her voice echoed in my head.

"My father... he's in a similar line of business. I don't know exactly what."

Lies.

I turned the page, blood rushing to my ears as I scanned the neatly typed text.

Parents:
Jace Miller — father
Hannah Miller — mother

I gripped the edge of the desk, my knuckles whitening.

No.

The pages blurred as my vision tunneled. I turned another page with a hand that trembled. Her birth certificate laughed in my face mocking my innocence.

Child's Name: Theodora Beth Miller

She wasn't Lane. She was Miller.

The daughter of the man who had been my enemy since before I could walk.

The truth triggered a memory, a scene that blazed to life with brutal clarity.

The fight.

I remembered the fire in her eyes as she moved without hesitation, her hand steady as she pulled the gun from my waistband. The sharp, calculated way she aimed.

Her grip was perfect, her aim deadly. A clean shot. She had taken out the man without blinking, her body moving like she had been trained from birth.

"Be careful Conrad. You're slacking." Nate's voice, sharp and clear. I had dismissed him. I had laughed at his concern.

I wasn't laughing now.

I felt the crack before I heard it.

The glass shattered between my fingers, whisky pouring onto the floor as shards sliced into my skin. I didn't feel the pain.

The truth had its claws in me now. The truth was a hammer, and my chest was splintering under its weight.

She lied to me. I let her lie to me.

I reached for the desk with a snarl, gripping the edge with blood-slicked fingers, and flipped it over with a roar. Papers exploded into the air, swirling like dead leaves in a storm.

Breathing ragged, I shoved my chair into the wall, the wood splintering as it struck. I grabbed the bottle from where it had rolled, hurling it across the room. It shattered against the door, amber liquid pooling over the floorboards.

My vision turned red.

I ripped drawers from their hinges, throwing them aside. A lamp crashed to the ground. Bookshelves groaned as I wrenched them forward, their contents spilling in a chaotic heap.

The file lay crumpled beneath my feet, whisky-soaked pages curling at the edges. I saw her name through the haze—Miller.

I kicked the papers, sending them scattering again.

My gun was in my hand before I realized it.

I aimed. I fired.

One shot.
Two.
Three.

I didn't stop until the magazine clicked empty, the recoil jarring my arm with each pull of the trigger. The walls bore the scars of my fury—splintered wood, jagged holes, dust still settling.

Smoke curled around me. The acrid scent of burnt whisky filled my nostrils. The silence that followed was deafening.

I stood in the wreckage, chest heaving, blood dripping from my hands. The glass and debris beneath my feet crunched with every shift of weight.

And I felt nothing but the hollow, aching fury that consumed me whole.

The fire crackled at my feet where the spilled liquor had caught flame. I collapsed onto the couch, my body spent, but my mind still a tempest.

When the door burst open, I didn't even look up.

The guards surged in, weapons drawn. My parents followed, their faces masks of horror. My mother snatched the gun from my grasp, her hands trembling. My father stared, his eyes dark with questions.

But I had no answers.

I didn't feel the pain from the reopened stitches. I didn't feel my skin burning from the hot flames caressing my skin. I didn't feel the glass penetrating the flesh on my hand.

All I could feel was her betrayal.

Her name burned in my mind like a curse.

Thea. Theodora. Miller.

I thought I had loved her.

And now I would kill her.

END OF CHAPTER THIRTY: THE POISON
1634 words

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