“I complied after that,” he says quietly.
Disgust slithers through my stomach. “What?”
His jaw tightens. “They made it clear that if I resisted again, you would be next. I didn’t have a choice.”
“Youalwayshave a choice,” Damon says coldly.
“You think I don’t know that?” my father snaps. “You think I don’t relive that decision every single day?”
The room vibrates with tension.
“For ten years,” my father continues, breathing harder now, “I’ve done what they asked. Political favors. Shipping access. Ignored inspections. Cleared routes through the port.”
I stare at him, horror-struck.
“All this time…” My voice sounds thin. “All this time, you’ve been publicly campaigning aboutstoppingcartel expansion.”
His eyes close briefly, and suddenly, I understand.
The speeches.
The outrage.
The policies.
The interviews.
It was all theater.
“You’ve literally been helping them grow?” The disdain in my voice is unmistakable. I don’t even try to hide it.
“For you,” he whispers. “I did it for you.”
“For me?” Emotions rise so violently in my chest, I can barely contain them. My body shakes, but it’s not from fear—it’s rage. Betrayal, and grief so overwhelming I feel like I’m drowning. “You spent years standing in front of cameras, talking about justice and security and protecting families, while you were helping the people who murdered Mom?”
“I was protecting you!”
“You were protectingyourself!” My accusation slices through the room, and my father recoils.I want him to hurt. I want him to feel a fraction of what’s tearing through me right now.
“You think I wanted this?” he shouts. “You think I wanted blood on my hands?”
“You already had blood on your hands.”
My father drags a hand over his face, his professional mask sliding back into place.
“Recently, they escalated things. They started requesting personal transportation services in the United States. Packages carried directly by diplomatic courier. With my credentials, customs inspections become… easier. And with all the trips to and from Westbridge?—”
“You used my flights to traffic drugs?”
“No.” The answer comes, sharp and immediate. “I refused, so they became less subtle,” he admits quietly. “The threats intensified. Surveillance. Messages. They made itveryclear they wanted compliance.”
“So you went back to the DEA,” Gunnar asks.
“Yes. I falsified evidence. Told them I was the target, hoping they would do something.”
“Jesus Christ,” Hawk mutters. “They don’t have any jurisdiction. What exactly were you expecting them to do?”
I sink onto the stairs, my legs unable to support me anymore. Damon crouches beside me instantly, one hand braced carefully against my knee.
