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I’d witnessed what fellow humans would do for power. I’d grown up.
But despite what had happened, Cleo didn’t see the world the way I did. She still believed in fairness, truth, and love. She was still gullible at heart and I envied her.
I envied her acceptance of a world steeped in deception. I wished I could relax. Just stop chasing this need to fix and tweak and change.
But I knew too much. I’d dug too deep and seen things I couldn’t unsee. I had to do this. I had no choice.
Because if I didn’t do it, who would?
It wasn’t that I wanted to become someone I wasn’t. It wasn’t that I wanted public recognition or entitlement that came with my future placement. But I did want to right my wrongs—and this was my path to forgiveness.
All this time, Cleo thought I was the same math-obsessed boy from Dagger Rose. The same boy betrayed by those most dear and corrupted by a prison inmate.
True, parts of that boy survived, but the years had changed me, turned me into an entirely new man.
Tonight, she would see everything. She would finally know all of me. She would hear what I’d been working on. What the lawlessness, the trading, even the trafficking had been building toward.
I wasn’t just a man with a vendetta. If I was, I would’ve killed my father years ago.
I was a man with a mission. A mission to eradicate this world of filth. To stop corruption. To end those who lie and cheat and steal.
I wasn’t a vigilante.
I wasn’t a crusader.
But I was a United States citizen and had a responsibility to deliver the truth.
Unfortunately, my eyes had been opened. I saw through bullshit and incorrect leadership all thanks to my father’s treatment of his president and peers. He made me see. And he made me understand that he was nothing compared to the men in power. Lies were the backbone of our country. Men passed bills with no votes, they discarded doctrines, and shredded rules that had the potential to stop their reign.
My father was nothing in my overall scheme.
I was after more than just him. More than just Clubs who broke the faith of their brothers.
I was after the fucking top dogs. The men who ruined so many people’s lives with no thought and decimated entire generations with a single signature.
That was my true purpose.
And when Cleo found out that I could never walk away from what I’d promised, then she would have to choose.
Choose to accept me and tolerate my obsession for equality.
Or steal the only happiness I’ve ever had and leave.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cleo
I don’t remember.”
It used to be such a flippant phrase. But now it was as if I scraped out my soul and handed it bleeding and screaming to whoever asked: Who was I? What’d happened? Who’d done this to me?
I hated those three little words. “I don’t remember.” I hated my brain for holding me hostage. But most of all, I hated being so empty. Memories were my enemies, judging me to solitary loneliness. —Cleo, diary entry, age sixteen
Arthur guided me across the large lounge. The house was pristinely decorated. Everything—from doors to trim—was lacquered in high-gloss white. Lights glittered with crystals and threads of a symphony orchestra dripped from ceiling speakers, sewing with the voices of expensively dressed guests.
“Who are these people?” I ducked around the train of a silver gown and smiled at a bushy moustached gentleman.
“People who run this country,” Arthur said, never breaking his stride.
Government officials?
My eyes focused, searching strangers with deeper clarity. I didn’t recognize anyone.
I couldn’t align the two worlds correctly in my head. Here we were brushing shoulders with liberals and democrats, yet back at home we were the law. We penned rules and carried out justice—we were our own government.
But here, Arthur straddled two existences effortlessly. Why?
Last night we’d been around a campfire eating pork ribs, dancing in leather, and being entertained by awful ghost stories and cheap booze. Now I tottered on exquisite stilettoes, mingled with fashionistas, and became invisible at an exclusive cocktail party.
It doesn’t make sense.
It was an eternity as we navigated the room and advanced on a small group of men by a bay window. The glint of a chandelier bounced off Arthur’s wrist, revealing cuff links designed with the tiny skulls and abacas of the Pure Corruption logo.
Every step I fretted about what I would say and what was expected of me.
I don’t remember.
Those three hated words from my past sat heavily on my tongue—just waiting for the questions to begin. My gut clenched. Cold sweat drenched. And I struggled to remind myself that I did remember. That I had nothing to fear. Nothing to forget.
The crowds parted, letting us cut through the masses of sequins and silk while they milled around like fattened carp. Bookshelves held treasured vacation artifacts, and the walls were adorned with family portraits of the man we were heading toward: the senator and his pretty wife with dark brown hair and two young boys who looked identical to their father.
I swallowed as the senator looked up. He paused mid-handshake with another gentleman and bent in to say something. A moment later, he excused himself and crossed the small distance to intercept us.
Without a word, he walked past, narrowing his eyes at Arthur.
Nodding at the unspoken instruction in the senator’s gaze, Arthur turned inconspicuously and followed.
We chased Mr. Samson from the congested party, down a short corridor, and into an office painted in maroons and dark greys. The ceiling had been decorated black so it pressed like a toiling storm—or a lid perhaps, a cap on all secrets and gossip shared.
