“The route that night was Marcel's suggestion,” he said quietly. “He insisted we change paths. Said the original plan was compromised by protest activity. That we needed to avoid certain streets.”
My chest went tight. “He chose the route.”
“He chose the route,” my father confirmed. “And when the attack happened, he was the first one there. The first one to comfort me. The first one to start cleaning up evidence.”
“What evidence?” Viktor's voice went hard. Dangerous.
“Shell casings. Bolt fragments. Anything that might have traced back to who ordered the hit.” My father finally poured the scotch.Drank it in one swallow. “I thought he was protecting me. Protecting the investigation. But he was protecting himself.”
The room spun. I gripped the back of the chair to stay upright.
“You think Marcel killed my mother.”
Not a question. Statement. Accusation. Truth I'd been hunting for eighteen years finally finding form.
“I think Marcel created the circumstances that got her killed,” my father said. “Whether he pulled the trigger or simply ensured she'd be in the right place at the right time...” He set the glass down hard enough to crack. “The result is the same.”
Rage exploded through me. Hot. Blinding. Eighteen years of grief and guilt and hunting in the dark finally finding a target.
I lunged for the door.
Viktor caught me. Arms around my waist, lifting me off my feet, holding me back with the kind of strength that said he'd expected this.
“Let me go!”
“No.”
“Viktor, let me?—”
“I said no.” His voice cut through the rage like a blade through smoke. “You go after him now, you die. He's expecting it. Waiting for it. Wants you to lose control.”
“I don't care!”
“I do.” He turned me around. Forced me to look at him. “I care, Sebastian. And I will not let you throw yourself into a trap because you're angry.”
“He killed her!” The words ripped out of me. Raw. Broken. “He killed my mother and I've been living under the same roof as him for eighteen fucking years!”
“I know.” Viktor's hands framed my face. “I know. And we will make him pay. But not like this. Not stupid. Not reckless.”
“Then how?”
“Smart. Planned. With proof he cannot deny and witnesses he cannot silence.”
My father's voice cut in. Tired. Resigned. “Bring me proof, son. No speculation. Proof I can hang a man with.”
I looked at him. At this king who'd suspected his closest friend of murdering his wife and done nothing because he needed evidence. Because he was bound by laws and protocols while the monster walked free.
“You'll have it,” I said. Voice shaking. “Tonight.”
My father's expression shifted. Fear underneath the exhaustion. “Sebastian?—”
“Tonight,” I repeated. Viktor's hand found mine. Squeezed. Understanding without words. “We're going into his office. We're taking everything. And when we're done, you'll have enough proof to execute him twice.”
“You can't?—”
“Watch me.”
I pulled away from Viktor. Headed for the door. My father's voice followed.
