Page 129 of Brutal Truths

This is the first time I’ve stepped foot in the penthouse since the fire. The place doesn’t look much different. Not exactly what I expected.

Fires are supposed to leave their mark. Charred walls, damage you can’t ignore. But here, it was contained. The only substantial damage is in the kitchen. It’ll require attention. New appliances. Cabinets need replaced. Other than that, the rest of the place feels untouched. A good thing.

Almost like nothing happened. Not sure if that’s comforting… or unsettling.

I pass the gallery’s locked door on my way to grandfather’s office. Going inside will have to wait. Right now, I need answers. Trent gave me enough to go on. I just have to see what’s actually there.

The door is closed, just like always. I’m about to open it when my attention is drawn to my right, down a short hall that leads to his bedroom.

I shouldn’t go that way, but I can’t stop my feet from moving. Each step feels heavier the closer I get, because I already know I’m not going to like what I see. Aiden mentioned it’s ransacked, but the reality proves worse than I’d imagined.

The room is destroyed. Furniture overturned, drawers emptied, everything scattered, torn apart piece by piece.

Trying not to let my thoughts spiral, I step around the mess and over to the bathroom door. I don’t go inside. I can’t.

The glimpse I catch is enough. Dried blood. The broken mirror. My chest tightens, my pulse racing as I turn and rush out of the room before it pulls me any further under.

The hallway feels darker when I step into it. I brace a hand against the wall, taking a moment to catch my breath and regroup.

Tears sting as the image forms. My grandfather standing there, unaware, caught in a moment he didn’t know would be his last. The thought lingers, digging deeper every second.

What begins as grief evolves into something else. It sharpens, twists, and becomes difficult to hold back.

Anger. Rage. All the things I felt earlier returns with a vengeance. I stomp my way back down the hall and shove the office door open.

The strong whiff of cigar and bourbon instantly hit me, two of his favorite things. He didn’t always smoke them. Most of the time it sat untouched in the ashtray, slowly burning. It was never about the taste; he liked the smell.

A quiet laugh slips out as the memory surfaces. The one and only time I snuck a puff of his cigar. It was a disaster. I nearly puked and hacked up a lung before I could even pretend I liked it.

When he caught me, he started to scold me, but that didn’t last. That familiar smirk tugged at his lips. “Serves you right for trying to smoke my cigars before you’re old enough.”

The room carries a chill that has nothing to do with the temperature. A sadness lingers in the air that I can’t quite put into words. Moving to his desk, I let my fingers glide over the smooth cherry-mahogany wood, tracing the surface where he spent so much of his time.

When I was younger, I’d pretend to be him. Planted my butt in his chair and tried my best to scowl at the chairs across from it. The same way I’d seen him do with my grandmother when she’d say something he didn’t agree with.

Rico Lopez was a hard man to understand. I never feared him, but I knew others did. He rarely raised his voice, but there was a sternness in the way he spoke that made people know he wasn’t leaving room for argument.

I used to be curious about his business. He refused to talk about it. Dismissed it as complicated, insisting it wouldn’t interest me. Back then I let it go. Now, I can’t.

Standing here, it’s impossible not to question it. It was never about sparing me the details. He kept it from me because he had no other choice. His world was tied to men like Trent. Illegal, hidden shit that had to stay buried if he wanted to keep seeing me.

I came in here to grab the key for the gallery, but then it occurs to me that the only key I know about is the one in the safe. The one Aiden used when he searched the penthouse.

That changes things.

I settle into his desk chair and let my eyes wander the room, replaying what Trent revealed about a hidden camera. Given everything I know now, it doesn’t feel far-fetched.

Where would my grandfather hide a camera?

It would need a clear view of the entire office. Dead spots wouldn’t make sense. Faces matter. Meaning it’s behind me.

I spin the leather chair around and study the floor-to-ceiling bookcase. My grandfather was a collector. Loved the classics. First editions were his prize possessions, though he only owned a few. The rest were third and fourth editions, all carefully preserved.

A few years ago, I found a rare second edition of The Canterbury Tales. It cost more than I want to admit, but worth it when it pulled a rare smile from my grandfather. Something I’ll never forget.

Standing, I move closer, searching until I find it encased inside a glass box, carefully protected from time. Not all his books are protected like this, only those he considered priceless—irreplaceable.

He has an impressive collection. Most aren’t first editions, but that never seemed to matter to him. It was more about the stories and history they carried.