Page 17 of Take Me Darkly

“Cade?” she echoed, her voice laced with a sudden coldness. “What does Cade have to do with this?”

Zeke pushed a grainy surveillance photo across the table. It showed a sharp-featured man in his mid-thirties exiting a private terminal in Milan.

“Cade Rosenberg has been on Interpol’s watchlist for two years,” Zeke stated flatly. “A person of interest in international art theft and black-market antiquity smuggling.”

“That’s impossible,” Serena scoffed, though a tremor of doubt undercut her defiance. “Cade is an arrogant academic, not an international criminal! How reliable is this Hale Fulton person anyway?”

“Hale is former military,” I answered for Zeke, my voice hard. “He ran black-ops intelligence before going private. If Hale says Rosenberg is dirty, he’s dirty.”

Serena’s brow furrowed in confusion. “If law enforcement knew this, why wasn’t Cade arrested?”

“Because he’s a ghost. He never handles the contraband directly. But everywhere a major Disciples shipment moved through Europe, Rosenberg was present in that exact city forty-eight hours prior, posing as an academic researcher.” Zeke flipped the photo over, revealing a secondary close-up of the back of a man’s neck.

Tattooed into the skin at the base of the skull was the exact same coiled serpent symbol.

Serena gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

“Anton showed me that tattoo...” she whispered, her eyes wide with horror as the terrifying realization crashed down on her. “When we were at the hotel in Lucca…”

She didn’t finish her sentence. She didn’t have to. I had wondered how much she remembered about our argument from that fateful day, and now I had my answer.

“Serena told me Cade didn’t have that ink when they were together,” I reminded Zeke, my chest tight with possessive rage.

“He didn’t,” Zeke confirmed. “This photo was taken three months ago in Rome. The skin around the ink is still raised and healing. It’s a mark of full initiation into the Serpent’s Disciples.”

The silence in the apartment was suffocating. I watched the violent war of emotions tearing across Serena’s face—shock, betrayal, horror, and a devastating wash of self-blame.

“Cade poisoned my father,” she said, her voice dropping to a hollow, terrifying whisper.

“We can’t prove he administered the toxin,” Zeke said softly, “but the timeline is damning. When did you break up with him?”

“Two months after my father died,” Serena said, her voice cracking. “I caught him cheating, but... my God. He was there so often, he was practically living in our house. My mother cooked for him. He had unrestricted access to my father’s food, his tea, his medications... I let a monster into our home.”

“No, Serena,” I snapped, stepping around her chair and gripping her shoulders, forcing her to look at me. “Do not do this to yourself. You were played by a professional sociopath.”

“Anton’s right,” Zeke added, his expression heavy. “The Disciples build long-term assets. Rosenberg didn’t target you by accident, Serena. He likely pursued a relationship with you specifically to gain access to your father’s research. His entire presence in your life was a calculated operation.”

I shot Zeke a sharp, warning glare. He was giving her raw facts, but Serena was bleeding out under the weight of them.

“That’s enough, Zeke,” I commanded, my voice laced with steel.

Serena stood up abruptly, breaking away from my touch, and wrapping her arms tightly around her waist as if holding her shattered pieces together.

“You said there are pieces missing. Do you think the clues would have been in my father’s journals?” Her back was to us, her voice hoarse with unshed tears.

“They could be,” Zeke replied.

“He kept detailed field logs of every site, every rubbing, every symbol he ever cataloged. If he was unknowingly recording their network, those journals held the proof. That’s why they burned the house in Lucca, isn’t it? To destroy his records.”

Zeke nodded. “That’s a likely scenario. They’d want every trace of his research erased.”

“Then they won,” she whispered. “Everything was lost in the fire.”

“Actually, not everything,” I said quietly.

“Anton, everything I own is in a few duffel bags that were left in my car outside my mother’s house. Chalk it up to laziness, but not unpacking after the move from Rome ended up preserving a few precious memories at least. I’ve gone through everything. I don’t have any of my father’s journals. I’m not sure⁠—”

She stopped short when I held up my hand.