Page 77 of Irrevocably

I turn and lean against the wall, trying to find the hard, cold core of me.

The moment of truth is here. Once I’ve let Enzo’s men in, that’s my part in this particular drama played out. My brothers and sister will die in a hail of gunfire. Or maybe Enzo’s men will lie in wait and then kill them silently, slitting their throats before they’re even aware. Then again, Lazarus would never go down without a fight. And Thea? The little girl who used to be my shadow? And Killian, the little monster who never did what he was told?

The memories are long gone. Too many years have passed, and I have too many scars to feel anything for them. They’re nothing to me now. Especially when what I was promised at the very start of this mission is within my grasp.

My freedom. At last, at last, at fucking last.

“Yes, boss,” I say, steady as a rock.

“Excellent,” he replies. “You’re a good soldier, Lucien. One of the best.”

“Thank you, boss.”

“You’re like a son to me, I hope you know that.”

That’s what he calls me. Mio figlio. My son. It’s never bothered me before, but there’s something in his voice now, something that sounds like a warning.

I stare blankly at the wall opposite as the slow, icy fingers of doubt creep through me. I’m like a son to him, that’s what he said, and the sons of bosses stay in the family. Sons can never leave.

Those fingers wrap themselves slowly around my heart and squeeze. He told me he would release me after this was done, that I would be free. He promised me that.

“I do,” I say. “And you’ve been like a father to me. But once this is done, you’ll let me go, yes? That’s what you promised.”

There’s a small cold silence.

“Of course,” Enzo says. “You’ll get your reward, don’t you worry.”

My reward. That’s not the same as “freedom”. And the tone of his voice, too ready, too smooth.

The fingers squeeze tighter, but I already know it’s not going to happen.

Enzo won’t let me go. He’ll never let me go.

I’ll remain his forever.

Chapter Thirty-Five

ASTRID

I settle back in the couch, nursing my hand. The pain has dulled to a low throb now that the painkillers have kicked in, and I’m much warmer after Luc gave me a blanket. I’m also feeling strangely light, as if I could float away at any second, which is definitely the painkillers, but I’m not arguing. It’s better than suffering the agony of having the tip of your finger cut off.

Now my shock has dissipated, and the pain isn’t so acute, I’m finally able to process what happened, and where I am now. When Luc helped me from the car, I got a vague impression of a big house, very architectural in style, with lots of glass and stone, and surrounded by dark forest. Inside, it was all white walls and wooden floors, and then that bathroom where he stitched me up, black marble, stainless steel and more glass.

Expensive, my pain-hazed brain thought, and certainly nothing in this room proves otherwise. There’s the leather, sectional sofa I’m nestled in, the large wooden coffee table in front of me, and rows of bookshelves against the white walls. A huge TV graces the only empty wall, with a high-end sound system on a console table beneath it. There’s also one of those fancy fireplaces that sit in the middle of the room with a flue that goes straight up and through the roof.

I’m surprised, I can’t lie. Luc must have money stashed away somewhere. Or maybe it’s his family’s, since there’s more than one Frost.

Were they there at the factory? There was that woman I didn’t recognise and then some other people’s voices, but I can’t really remember anyone else.

The painkillers are really doing their job, because I should be more than a little afraid, especially after all that’s happened, but I’m not. In fact, it feels as if I’ve been gently wrapped in cotton wool and placed on a high shelf out of harm’s way. It’s a nice feeling. Weeping on Dad’s chest then being hit over the head, then being tortured really takes it out of a girl.

I have no idea what’s going to happen now, though. Luc’s deep, dark voice drifts in from the hallway, and the sound would have lulled me if not for the harsh edge in it. I don’t know who he’s talking to, but the moment he pulled his phone out, his expression changed. He stopped being Luc and became the hard, cold, merciless killer.

It should worry me, but I’ve given up on worry. It’s as if the pain from my finger washed everything else out of me, including the balloon in my chest, and now there’s nothing there. Nothing but the memory of Luc carrying me out of the warehouse and bundling me into the car, taking me away from everything.

I didn’t protest. Once I knew Dad was okay, all I wanted was to go with him.

Then him in the bathroom, reversing the roles we played in the cabin, with me being the injured one. He was so careful as he tended to my finger, so gentle, too; and the quiet competence with which he stitched me up…