The air smelled faintly of gunpowder and fear. Dominic's blood-streaked hand gripped my arm, his intensity tethering me to the chaos around us. My breaths were shallow, each one feeling like a battle of its own.
"We don't have much time," he said, his voice low but commanding. "The longer we wait, the harder it'll be to stay ahead."
"Wait for what?" I shot back, pulling away. My pulse pounded as I stared into his piercing eyes, demanding answers. "You promised. No more secrets, Dominic."
He sighed, a rare crack in his usually impenetrable demeanor. "Fine," he said, glancing around the dimly lit room. "But not here. Come on."
I wanted to scream at him, to plant my feet and demand that he stop dragging me along like a pawn in his twisted game. But the look in his eyes—that maddening mix of desperation and resolve—stilled my rebellion. For now.
He led me into a side corridor, away from the shattered glass and crimson stains that painted our escape. The cold marble beneath my feet seemed to amplify every hurried step. Finally, he shoved open a hidden door, revealing a small study lined with shelves of dusty books and stacks of documents. The room smelled of ink and secrets.
"Start talking," I said, folding my arms. My voice betrayed none of the tremor I felt inside. "You've kept me in the dark long enough."
He strode to a desk, rummaging through a pile of folders. "We're dealing with more than just a hired gun," he said, his tone clipped. "Someone's feeding them information. Every move we make, they're one step ahead."
I frowned, leaning closer. "You think it's a mole?"
"I know it is," he replied, slamming a folder onto the desk. "And whoever they are, they're working with the people who want you dead."
My stomach churned. "Why me, Dominic? What's so special about me?"
He hesitated, his gaze flickering to the floor. "Your father," he said finally, his voice heavy. "He was deeper in this than you ever knew."
The words hit me like a slap. "What are you talking about?"
Dominic shoved the folder toward me, his expression unreadable. "See for yourself."
I opened it with trembling hands, my eyes scanning the pages of coded messages, bank transfers, and surveillance photos. My father's face stared back at me from one of them, a grainy image of him shaking hands with a man I didn't recognize.
"This doesn't make sense," I murmured, shaking my head. "He's not involved in…" My voice trailed off as I read further. Offshore accounts. Payments disguised as charity donations. A name circled in red: Eleanor's Reach.
"You knew my father," I said, looking up. My voice cracked. "Didn't you?"
Dominic's jaw tightened. "I knew what he was involved in. And I know how dangerous those connections made him. And now you."
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" I demanded, my voice rising. "You had me thinking this was about you, about your enemies. But this?" I jabbed a finger at the folder. "This is my family, Dominic. My life."
"Because you weren't ready," he snapped. "And because knowing would have painted an even bigger target on your back."
I stared at him, fury and disbelief warring within me. "And now?"
"Now, it's too late to keep you out of it," he said. "They know who you are. They know how to use you."
The weight of his words pressed down on me. My father's shadow loomed larger than I'd ever imagined, and now it was suffocating me.
A sudden beep broke the silence, drawing our attention to a laptop on the desk. Dominic's expression darkened as he clicked the screen to life. A new message flashed across it:
Time's running out. Eleanor's Reach wasn't an accident.
I felt the blood drain from my face. "What does that mean?"
Dominic's gaze hardened, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. "It means," he said, "this just got personal."
My voice trembled. "For you or me?"
Before he could answer, the screen flickered, and another message appeared, this one chilling in its simplicity:
Scarlett, ask Dominic who killed your mother.
The room seemed to tilt. My legs threatened to give out as the words burned into my mind. "What?" I whispered, my voice barely audible.
Dominic's face was a mask of controlled rage. "We're out of time," he said, slamming the laptop shut. "They're trying to tear us apart. Don't let them."
But his words did nothing to calm the storm brewing inside me. "Did you know?" I demanded, my voice breaking. "Dominic, answer me!"
He reached for me, but I stepped back, shaking my head. The betrayal in my chest felt like a knife twisting deeper with every second of his silence.
And then he spoke, his voice a low growl. "Scarlett, if you want to survive this, you'll have to trust me."
The door burst open before I could reply, and armed men flooded the room. Dominic pushed me behind him, his gun drawn in an instant.
"Stay close," he ordered.
But my mind was already elsewhere, trapped in the devastating realization that the answers I craved might destroy me.
The tension thickened as we prepared to fight our way out. But even as the danger closed in, one question echoed in my mind, louder than the chaos around me:
Who killed my mother?