Page 34 of Damián

“Sir.”

Ah… damn it…

“Martin,” I say, slightly annoyed. “I already took off my shoes. I swear I’m not bringing dirt into the house.”

“And we are very thankful for that.” He nods, pleased. “But this is about your father. He is expecting you in his office.”

My stomach falls, and my chest fills with dread. My father never calls to check up or for any dumb reason.

Did Silvio and Franco see something? Did the signal jammer in the car tip them off? My hands start shaking, and Martin notices.

No, no. This is bad…

“Fuck… shit timing to go see my dad,” I say, rubbing under my nose as if brushing something off. “Do I still have any traces of coke?”

Martin checks my face as I stare at him, full of boredom and annoyance. “No, sir.”

“Good. Now, be nice and bring a drink and some food to my room.” I adjust my clothes and fix my hair. “Today’s batch of coke got me extremely jittery.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll bring it up to your room.”

“Thanks.” I wave goodbye and walk toward the east corridor.

Once alone, I thank the stars for helping me think fast. I look at my shaking hands, and though the tremors are softer, they’re still there.

Every step I take toward Elijah’s office feels like I’m walking to my own execution. Especially since this part of the house looks different from the rest.

While more than half of the mansion is modern and clean, this part reeks of an old English, creepy vibe.

The walls are paneled in dark colors and covered with original oil paintings of aristocrats and hunting hounds that seem to watch me as I pass. The furniture is made of darkened oak, and the carpets are thick enough to swallow the sound of footsteps, making the hallway feel like a creepy, soundproof tomb.

I’m pretty sure when the architect asked my father what he wanted, Elijah gave him a picture of Anne Boleyn’s hanging site and just said, “Yes.”

I reach the end of the corridor where there are two black wooden doors. Everyone else in this house knocks three times before getting permission to come in, but I don’t knock. I never do, because ‘Oliver the asshole heir’ wouldn’t knock.

Instead, I push the doors open and let myself in.

Elijah is standing behind his desk, his back to me, staring out the window while holding a phone to his ear. Without turning around, he raises his left hand and points a single finger at one of the leather wingback chairs opposite the desk.

I ignore him and stay on my couch.

He might see it as me pushing his boundaries, but in reality, I always pick this couch because it is the only place where I can sit in the main area while still being far enough from everything… like a secret magic bubble that keeps me protected from all this freaking darkness.

“No, tell Ashton to go north,” he says, and I sigh.

If Ashton is involved, this call can take another hour. So I look around the office, finding little things to distract myself so I can calm down my nerves.

To the left of my couch is a glass-fronted cabinet that displays a collection of antique Purdey shotguns. I actually used to like those when I was an ignorant kid.

Above the fireplace hangs the mounted head of a lion… very creepy… and in the middle is a custom-made crystal box with a black, leather-bound ledger inside.

I recoil… I always do whenever I see that stupid book.

My father might treat that thing like his most prized treasure, but for me, it’s a reminder of what I found and lost at the same time.

The ledger I should’ve never opened, should’ve never read, with the discrepancies I noticed and should’ve never, ever told my father about.

To this day, a part of my soul dies with regret for what I did that day, but part of me knows that the knowledge I gained by reading that ledger led me to where I am and helped me save the people I saved.