Page 126

The corridor stretched ahead of me in a blur of pale walls and dark wooden doors. Behind me, voices resumed inside Atlas’s office, low and controlled as the Cavalho family began dissecting my father’s life.

Their words followed me down the hallway.

I didn’t know where I was going. I only knew I couldn’t remain in that room while strangers discussed Gabriele Serra as though he were nothing more than a name inside a criminal ledger.

My father had packed my school lunches when I was too tired to get out of bed.

He had taught me how to change a tyre on the side of a country road, refusing to help until I learned to loosen every bolt myself.

When I was eleven and sick enough to be frightened by my own body, he had sat outside the bathroom door all night because I had been too embarrassed to let him inside.

He had also authorized routes used to transport women.

The two versions of him collided inside my head until I could no longer tell which memories belonged to the man I loved and which belonged to the stranger whose name had appeared on Artemus’s screen.

I pushed through the first door I found. The room beyond was narrow and dim, with tall windows overlooking the winter garden. White sheets covered the furniture, turning the abandoned chairs and tables into shapeless ghosts. A stone fireplace occupied most of one wall, and a bed of cold ash remained undisturbed in the grate.

I closed the door behind me with trembling hands.

The door opened again, but I didn’t turn.

“Leave.”

The door closed quietly. Footsteps crossed the floor before stopping several paces behind me.

“I said leave.”

“I heard you.”

Demitri.

“Then why are you still here?”

He didn’t answer. The truth remained on the other side of the house, preserved across computers, copied files and financial records. Walking away from the screen had not changed what I had seen. My father’s name was still there. So was his signature.

“Adriana.”

I turned.

He stood behind me with his hands loose at his sides. He was not close enough to crowd me. His face wasn’t arranged into the careful expression people used when dealing with someone else’s grief. He looked composed. My entire life had just split open, yet he stood before me as though the floor beneath us remained solid. And I hated him for it.

“My father helped them.”

“We don't know the full extent of his involvement.”

“His name was there.” My voice remained quiet, but the strain beneath it made every word ache. “You saw it as clearly as I did.”

“I did.”

“He must have known what they were doing.”

Demitri held my gaze. “He may have.”

“Stop trying to protect me from it.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re choosing every word so carefully; its like you’re trying to protect me from the truth.”