Ruth Lee's POV
The room was oppressively silent, the type of silence that wasn't peaceful but heavy-like the walls themselves were holding secrets they dared not speak. I crouched in the hidden study, the place only Peter and I knew about. Papà's voice echoed in my head, "This house has eyes, Ruth. And not all of them are friendly." I used to think it was his paranoia talking. Now I wasn't so sure.
The small room was hardly enlightened by the hidden light of a lamp. Only a table and two chairs stood in the space. Nothing else. It felt as if the walls were falling upon me as, inch by inch, my fingers were scraping the wood, looking for-what? A clue? Salvation?
"Think, Ruth," I whispered, my voice trembling. "Peter left you something. He had to." My brother always had a plan, even if he never told me. He always said I talked too much.
I gave the walls a harder push once more for whatever was covered to come up. Nothing. I bit my lip as the panic began to rise into my chest. Then my eyes caught the chair. Papà's chair, he would call it his throne. The one he liked to sit in giving orders, playing emperor of sorts. My trembling hands grasped the worn leather as I sank onto the chair.
What would you do, Papà?" I muttered under my breath, drumming my fingers on the table.
Click.
I froze. The sound was faint but unmistakable. My eyes darted to the table as a hidden drawer slid out from its side. My breath caught. For a second, I was too scared to move. Then, with shaking hands, I reached for the drawer and pulled it open.
Inside, I found a neat pile of documents. No safe. No secret weapon. Just papers. It burned through my disappointment, however, was quickly overtaken by curiosity. I grabbed the files and began to flip through them. My heart pounded harder with every turned page.
Gun purchases. Drug transactions. Hospital records. Trips to…
"Rome?" I said out loud. That made no sense. Papà hated Italy. He used to call it "the graveyard of ambition." So why did these documents show he'd been traveling there so often?
My hands shook a little as I turned another page. More and more records, more evidence of… things I couldn't even fathom. Illegal dealings, coded messages, bank accounts with staggering balances. My stomach twisted. This wasn't just shady business. This was a nightmare.
Then something slipped from between the pages and fell into my lap. A small card. Across it, in Papà's handwriting:
PLAN A, RUTH.
Under that was an address: Via Dela Camilluccia 14, 00135, Rome, Italy
My heart thundered so loudly in my ears that I feared it might shoot out of my chest. What was he up to? Why me? And why Rome? My head whirled while another thing in the drawer caught my eye: a black card, platinum-the one Papà used only for emergencies.
There were also plane tickets. Two of them. One for me, one for Peter. Departure in thirty minutes.
"No. No, no, no," I muttered, standing so fast the chair almost tipped over. Peter knew this was going to happen. Papà knew. That's why they left these things here. My throat began to close as the panic set in. I snatched the documents and crammed them into the tote bag I had brought with me. That's when I saw the photographs.
Dead men, tortured men, men hanging on for dear life. Their faces stared back at me-twisted in agony. I felt my stomach lurch, dropping the pictures to scramble them together again shaking.
"Oh God," I whispered. "What the hell have you been doing, Papà?"
I didn't have time to process it. I had to go. I ran back into my room, yanked open the drawers, and started shoving everything that would fit into the bag. My passport. My phone. My wallet. Then I saw it: a wad of cash on my desk. Beside it, a note in Peter's handwriting:
DO NOT USE YOUR CARD. TRUST NO ONE.
I froze. Someone had been in my room. My door had been locked last night, and I… I hadn't unlocked it this morning. My skin prickled, and I felt the air in the room grow heavier. Someone was watching me. Someone knew I was still alive.
I grabbed the cash and sent it into my bag. There was no time to think; no time to be indecisive. The bag swung onto my shoulder, and out of the room I ran as fast as my legs would carry me: my feet pounding against the marble floors down the very long corridor, heaving past all the bloodstains, past the dead bodies of individuals I had known all my life.
I wouldn't look at them, couldn't. My brain shrieked at me to pay attention to the exit. Just get out. Get out and sort it out later.
The courtyard was dead silent. The bodies were still there, strewn about like broken dolls. Père, our gardener, lay beside the fountain, his face unrecognizable. I swallowed hard and kept running, my breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps.
As I approached the gate, a car screeched to a stop in front of me. My heart jumped to my throat. A man emerged, his face hidden by a baseball cap. He looked up, and our eyes met.
"Ruth Lee?" he asked. His voice was calm, too calm.
I froze. My instincts screamed at me to run, but my legs wouldn't move.
"Get in the car," he said, nodding toward the passenger seat.
"Who the hell are you?" I asked, my voice shaking.
"A friend of Peter's," he replied. "He sent me to get you out."
I didn't trust him. I didn't trust anyone. But what choice did I have? I glanced over my shoulder and saw shadows moving inside the house. Someone was coming.
"If you want to live, get in the car," the man said, his voice sharper this time.
My feet finally obeyed, and I climbed into the car, clutching my bag like a lifeline. The man slammed the door shut and sped off, the tires screeching against the pavement.
"Where are you taking me?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"The airport," he said. "Your brother's orders."
Is he alive?" I asked, the hope fluttering in my chest.
The man didn't answer. He kept his eyes on the road, his jaw tight. My heart fell. If Peter was dead, I didn't know what I'd do.
The ride to the airport was a blur. My mind swam with questions, none of which had answers. When we arrived, he handed me the plane ticket and a burner phone.
Don't call anyone you know," he said. "Just get on the plane and follow the instructions in Rome."
"What about you?" I asked as I stepped from the car.
He gave me a small, sad smile. "My job's done.
And before I could get another word out, he peeled out into the honking, leaving me to fight my way through the airport bedlam alone. I clutched the ticket and the phone tightly as my shaking legs made their way through security on to the gate. Every second I felt someone was watching me, waiting for me to make a mistake.
As I made my way to my seat in the airplane and sat, I exhaled shallowly. My hands still quivered while clutching the bag close to my chest. Suddenly, the engines sprang into action; I shut my eyes, trying to steady my breath.
The plane lifted off, and I looked out the window, watched Seoul shrink beneath me. The house, the courtyard, the bodies… they were all gone. But the questions weren't.
Who was my father?
What had Peter gotten himself into?
And what the hell was waiting for me in Rome?
A voice snapped me out of my thoughts.
"Miss Lee," a flight attendant said, her tone polite but firm.